GIFT   OF 

MICHAEL  REESE 


The  Night  Cometh 


By 

Paul  Bourget 


Translated  from  the  French  by 
G.  Frederic  Lees 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 
fmicfcerbocfter    press 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1916 

BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 


Ubc  ftnfcfeerbocfeer  press,  flew  ]0orb 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I. — LEFT  BEHIND  i 

II. — AN  ORTHODOX  SCIENTIST         .        .        9 

III. — THE  APPEAL  OF  THE  SUMPTUOUS      .      15 

IV. — THE     MARRIAGE    OF    FORTY-FOUR 

AND  TWENTY       ....      21 

V. — SEVEN  YEARS  LATER       .        .        .25 

VI. — THE  COUSIN  FROM  THE  FRONT         .      34 

VII. — FAITH  AND  SCEPTICISM     ...      41 

VIII.— A  WIFE'S  ANXIETY          ...      48 

IX. — A  MAN  DOOMED      .        .        .        .58 

X.— BENEFICENT  DECEPTION          .        .      76 

XL — AGENTS  OF  DESTRUCTION         .        .      88 

XII.— THE  SURGEON'S  COLLAPSE      .        .      94 

XIII. — THE  PROOF  OF  MADAME  ORTEGUE  's 

DEVOTION 100 

XIV. — THE  FAILURE  OF  AN  ENDEAVOUR     .     114 


iv  Contents 


PAGE 


XV. — TIME,  THE  ALLY       .        .        .        .127 

XVI. — LE     GALLIC'S    RETURN    TO    THE 

CLINIQUE 145 

XVII. — LE  GALLIC,  THE  INSTRUMENT  .        .160 

XVIII. — FAITH  AND  SNEERS  .        .        .        .171 

XIX. — AN  INCIDENT  AT  THE  FRONT    .        .180 

XX. — LE  GALLIC'S  REQUEST     .        .        .198 

XXI. — A  FAR-OFF  IDYLL     ....     204 

XXII. — THE  SOURCE  OF  STRENGTH       .        .211 

XXIII. — A  HEART  INVADED  .        .        .        .219 

XXIV. — PAUSING  AT  THE  BRINK    .        .        .228 

XXV. — HASTENING  TO  ORTEGUE          .        .241 

XXVI. — A  RECIPROCAL  CHALLENGE      .        .    248 

XXVII. — RELINQUISHMENT     ....    262 

XXVIII.— THE     TRAGEDY     IN    RUE     SAINT 

GUILLAUME  .  .  .  .275 

XXIX. — COMBATING  A  DIRE  RESOLUTION      .    288 
XXX.— WHICH  Is  THE  TRUE?       .        .        .297 


The  Night  Cometh 


The  Night  Cometh 


LEFT   BEHIND 

BEFORE  these  recollections  become  ob- 
literated, I  would  set  them  down.  At 
this  Clinique  in  the  Rue  Saint  Guillaume, 
which  upon  the  outbreak  of  the  war  was 
transformed  into  a  military  hospital,  my 
time  is  fully  absorbed;  there  are  forty  beds, 
always  occupied,  and  the  cases  are  very  seri- 
ous. There  are  two  of  us  doctors  upon  whom 
the  duties  devolve.  Did  I  say  two?  The 
surgeon  comes  only  in  the  morning  to  perform 
his  operations.  He  calls  again  in  the  after- 
noon, throws  a  glance  round,  and  is  off,  leav- 
ing me  alone,  with  a  wretched  second-year 
student,  excused  from  military  service  be- 


2  The  Night  Cometh 

cause  of  a  weak  heart,  and  so  clumsy  that  I 
can  only  just  entrust  him  with  an  intravenous 
injection. 

This  condition  of  things  has  been  going  on 
for  nine  months:  August,  September,  October, 
November,  December,  January,  February, 
March,  and  April — nine  months  since  I  tried 
to  secure  permission,  in  spite  of  my  lame- 
ness, to  go  to  the  front,  to  serve  at  a  regimental 
dressing-station.  Once  more  that  glorious 
afternoon  comes  back  to  me  (through  the 
irony  of  Fate  such  days  were  very  numerous 
during  the  tragic  summer  of  1914)  and  my 
arrival  at  the  house  of  my  poor  master,  Pro- 
fessor Michel  Ortegue,  who  had  undertaken 
to  present  my  application. 

"Impossible,  my  dear  Marsal,"  he  said. 
"They  don't  want  you.  But  I've  arranged 
everything  otherwise .  I'm  placing  my  Clinigue 
under  military  control.  Now,  you  were  my  pupil 
at  the  Beaujon  Hospital.  Since  then  you've 
rather  betrayed  surgery.  But  your  sins  are 
forgiven.  I  need  an  assistant  on  whom  I  can 
depend.  I'll  take  you.  .  .  .  Is  that  settled?" 


Left  Behind  3 

Whosoever  had  once  worked  under  a  man 
of  so  strong  a  personality  as  Ortegue  ever 
after  regarded  him  as  "the  master,'*  one 
whose  orders  were  beyond  discussion.  I 
accepted.  I  shall,  then,  spend  the  entire  war 
in  this  ancient  mansion,  paradoxically  adapted 
by  Ortegue  to  the  practice  of  his  specialty, — 
surgery  of  the  nervous  system.  He  took  an 
inordinate  pride  in  this  building,  which  the 
celebrated  architect,  Daniel  Marot,  built  in 
1690,  for  the  first  Duke  of  Colombieres.  He 
loved  to  relate  its  annals  and  to  tell  about 
those  who  had  dwelt  in  it:  first  of  all  the  above- 
mentioned  Duke  of  Colombieres,  then  a 
granddaughter  of  the  great  Conde,  following 
her  I  know  not  what  financier,  the  son  of  a 
barber  who  became  wealthy  through  Law's 
system.  At  the  time  of  the  Terror  the  man- 
sion was  used  as  a  prison,  but  under  Napoleon 
it  became  the  residence  of  a  Marshal;  under 
the  monarchy  of  July  it  sheltered  a  foreign 
embassy,  and  under  the  Second  Empire,  a 
senator. 

Many    private   dramas   must   have   been 


4  The  Night  Cometh 

enacted,  in  the  course  of  those  two  hundred 
and  twenty-five  years,  within  these  walls  and 
in  proximity  of  this  peaceful  garden,  the 
ancient  trees  of  which,  at  this  very  time,  are 
putting  forth  their  fresh  spring  buds.  Their 
leaves  were  still  green  in  the  month  of  August. 
I  saw  them  turn  yellow,  fade,  and  fall.  Now 
again  I  see  them  put  on  their  verdant  dress. 
Many  other  eyes  have  looked  on  these  same 
trees  in  hours  of  anguish,  astonished  as  I  am 
by  the  contrast  between  this  work  of  Nature, 
its  perfect  rhythm,  its  perennial  slowness, 
and  the  grievous  frenzy  of  human  agitation. 

What,  however,  were  the  tragedies  in  which 
the  occupants  of  this  house  were  involved 
compared  to  the  frightful  cataclysm  whose 
sinister  shadow  I  see  everywhere  around  me, 
even  when  gazing  on  this  vernal  garden! 
Mutilated  soldiers  drag  themselves  about  in 
it — one  whose  arm  has  been  amputated,  an- 
other who  has  lost  a  leg — all  of  them  weak 
and  in  search  of  the  caresses  of  these  early 
gleams  of  sunshine.  Were  I  to  pass  through 
that  door,  I  should  see,  in  room  after  room, 


Left  Behind  5 

the  bloodless  or  vulturous  faces  of  wounded 
men  lying  back  on  their  pillows,  with  feverish 
eyes,  pinched  nostrils,  tight  mouths,  and,  on 
the  bedclothes,  scattered  newspapers,  "bearing 
such  headlines,  suggestive  of  worse  calamities 
as:  Violent  fighting  at  Dixmude  .  .  .  Fresh 
bombardment  of  Rheims  .  .  .  Transatlantic 
liner  sunk  by  a  Submarine  ! 

How  many  times,  during  this  entire  autumn 
and  winter,  have  I  trembled,  in  the  presence 
of  these  signs  of  warfare  being  waged  so  near, 
and  at  the  thought  that  I  am  here,  not,  indeed, 
useless,  but  nevertheless,  out  of  danger  !  My 
infirmity  overwhelms  me  with  shame,  as 
though  I  were  not  wholly  innocent  of  the 
chance  which  ruled  that  I  should  be  born 
thirty-two  years  ago,  with  a  club  foot,  which 
could  not  be  made  normal  even  through  an 
operation.  When  the  Taubes  and  Zeppelins 
dropped  their  bombs  on  Paris,  I  experienced, 
in  the  midst  of  feelings  of  revolt  and  horror, 
as  it  were,  a  sense  of  appeasement.  The  dan- 
ger was  certainly  insignificant,  but  it  was  a 
danger  for  all  that,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 


6  The  Night  Cometh 

I  held  intercourse  with  the  battle,  merely'  by 
hearing  for  a  second  that  bursting  of  bombs 
which  our  heroic  soldiers  hear  daily. 

And  then  I  reason  with  myself.  I  say  that 
these  soldiers  are  heroic.  Why?  Because 
they  offer  their  lives  bravely.  On  what 
account?  In  fulfilment  of  their  duty.  But 
what  is  their  duty?  Obedience  to  the  law. 
I  examine  this  idea  closely.  What  is  a  law 
to  a  scientist?  A  constant  and  necessary 
sequence  between  two  facts.  If  Ortegue  had 
still  been  in  the  flesh,  he  would  have  given  me 
a  very  simple  definition  of  heroism.  "A 
fact  being  taken  for  granted, — say  the  existence 
of  a  peril;  another  group  of  facts  being  ad- 
mitted,— a  certain  temperament,  a  certain 
hereditary  tendency,  a  particular  education; 
then  this  temperament,  this  heredity,  this 
education  will  secrete  courage,  whereas  an- 
other temperament,  a  different  heredity,  an 
education  of  another  kind  will  secrete  coward- 
ice, as  a  stomach  secretes  gastric  juice,  a 
liver  bile  in  the  presence  of  such  or  such  a 
substance." 


Left  Behind  7 

I  should  have  listened  to  him.  I  should 
not  have  dared  to  reply.  Nevertheless,  I 
should  have  retained  the  opinion  that  mental 
phenomena  are  more  complex  than  such  ex- 
planations admit.  We  are  not  considering  a 
stomach  which  does  or  does  not  secrete  gastric 
juice,  a  liver  which  does  or  does  not  secrete 
bile.  We  are  considering  a  soldier  who  shows 
courage,  and  another  who  is  guilty  of 
cowardice.  We  do  not  merely  establish  the 
truth  of  their  act.  We  qualify  it.  We  have 
a  feeling  of  esteem  and  enthusiasm  for  the 
one,  of  disdain  for  the  other.  Again  why?  Be- 
cause this  act  is  not  necessary,  because  it  is 
not  constant.  It  is  obligatory.  It  is  the 
difference  between  the  laws  which  rule  our 
voluntary  energy  and  those  which  govern  our 
physiological  energy. 

Again  I  examine  this  idea  closely.  There 
is  a  limit  to  obligation — that  of  our  faculties. 
No  order  from  any  leader,  whoever  he  may  be, 
can  compel  soldiers  to  walk  on  the  sea.  Why? 
Because  they  are  physically  unable  to  do  it. 
Our  power,  then,  is  the  measure  of  our  duty. 


8  The  Night  Cometh 

I,  for  instance,  could  not  be  an  ambulance 
doctor  at  the  front  because  of  my  infirmity. 
There  is  no  reason  for  reproaching  myself  on 
that  account.  I  have  done  my  best  in  this 
hospital.  I  have  adapted  my  faculties  to 
this  war.  Have  I  not  wholly  fulfilled  my 
duty? 


11 


AN   ORTHODOX  SCIENTIST 

WHAT  a  strange  turn  my  reflections  have 
taken,  seeing  that  I  am  a  doctor,  en- 
trusted with  a  doctor's  work,  amidst  undoubted 
medical  surroundings.  This  preoccupation, 
this  obsession  by  a  moral  problem  has  been 
and  will  continue  to  be  the  dominant  feature  of 
my  life  during  this  war.  It  is  indeed  on  that 
very  account  that  I  have  taken  these  sheets  of 
white  paper  and  commenced  to  write  this 
"  memoir, "  if  one  may  so  call  it,  in  order  to 
get  the  bearings  of  my  mind,  by  methodically 
grouping  a  whole  series  of  scenes  which  I  hap- 
pened to  witness  here,  on  this  very  spot.  For 
the  moment,  distracted  by  their  strangeness, 
I  have  not  had  the  strength  to  look  at  them 
intellectually,  if  I  may  so  express  myself.  I 
have  felt  only  their  tragic  side.  At  a  distance, 


io  The  Night  Cometh 

I  believe  I  can  unravel  their  abstract  meaning, 
their  value  as  an  argument  in  favour  of  a 
certain  thesis,  or  rather  of  a  hypothesis. 

How  many  times,  at  Beaujon  and  before 
the  operating  table,  have  I  heard  this  self- 
same Ortegue,  the  hero  of  these  painful  scenes, 
repeat,  whilst  one  of  us  was  anaesthetizing 
the  patient:  "Every  patient  is,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  true  clinical  surgeon,  an  experiment  insti- 
tuted by  nature."  The  events  which  I  would 
here  set  down  in  detail  also  constitute  one  of 
these  experiments,  and  their  recital  will  be 
but  one  of  those  " observations'*  which  Or- 
tegue advised  us  to  write  in  extenso.  ' '  Facts, ' ' 
he  insisted,  "collect  facts,  more  and  more 
facts.  Magendie  was  right:  the  savant  is 
merely  a  rag-picker  who  wanders  in  the  domain 
of  Science,  with  a  basket  on  his  back  and  a 
pointed  stick  in  his  hand,  and  who  collects  all 
he  finds."  Yes,  but  if  my  unfortunate  mas- 
ter were  to  rise  from  the  sumptuous  tomb 
which  he  had  had  prepared  for  himself  at 
the  Passy  cemetery  and  where  his  poor  tor- 
tured flesh  at  last  found  rest — without  mor- 


An  Orthodox  Scientist  n 

phia — this  "  observation  "  would  hardly  please 
him. 

The  facts  which  I  intend  to  set  down  here 
belong  to  the  order  of  religious  psychology, 
and,  for  that  idolater  of  facts,  those  facts  had 
no  existence.  When  you  spoke  to  him  about 
the  " religious  problem,"  he  laughed  loudly 
and  merrily.  It  was  impossible  then  to  draw 
from  him  any  other  formula — parodied  from 
the  Malade  imaginaire — than  this:  Primo 
pur  gar  e,  ensuita  philosophari.  Purge  oneself? 
Of  what?  Of  any  idea  of  a  possible  future 
life,  of  that  unhealthy  atavism  of  mysticism 
which  impels  us  to  follow  in  the  phenomena 
of  nature  the  trace  of  a  thought,  of  a  will,  of 
an  attachment.  He  would  not  admit  that 
the  divine  existed  in  the  world,  any  more  than 
in  man. 

Thinking  in  that  manner,  he  believed  he 
was  obeying  Magendie's  principle:  the  sub- 
mission of  the  intelligence  to  the  rude  fact. 
He  did  not  perceive  that  he  was  dogmatizing 
in  another  way,  he,  the  opponent  of  all  dogma. 
He  accepted  as  facts  only  the  phenomena  that 


12  The  Night  Cometh 

had  been  sorted  beforehand  by  an  orthodoxy, 
no  less  systematic  and  no  less  partial  than  the 
other,  namely,  scientific  orthodoxy.  I  pointed 
out  to  him,  timidly,  that  the  religious  fact  is 
also  a  fact,  and  that  it  would  therefore  be 
scientific,  in  accordance  with  the  experimental 
doctrine,  to  take  it  into  consideration." 
"  Primo  pur  gar  e,"  he  repeated.  "The  Super- 
natural does  not  exist.  Everything  which 
presupposes  a  personal  intention  in  the  uni- 
verse is  null  by  definition.  If  you  tell  me  that 
you  have  seen  an  animal  without  a  nervous 
system  which  felt  and  walked,  there  is  no  need 
of  my  verifying  your  testimony,  I  know  that 
it  is  false.  .  .  ." 

Innumerable  scientists  reason  like  Ortegue. 
I  myself  have  reasoned  in  that  manner.  I 
had  never  met,  face  to  face,  that  reality 
against  which  I  have  recently  been  colliding  for 
weeks  together.  Since  that  piece  of  evidence 
has  been  vouchsafed  me,  radical  negation  of 
the  Supernatural,  or,  to  speak  more  accurately, 
of  the  Spiritual,  seems  to  me  too  summary. 
Science,  in  the  issue,  is  only  a  hypothesis, 


An  Orthodox  Scientist  13 

whose  value  we  put  to  the  test  by  the  control 
of  reality.  In  medicine — on  this  point  Or- 
tegue  was  no  less  affirmative — the  most  logical 
theories  are  condemned  as  soon  as  clinical 
surgery  contradicts  them,  the  most  discon- 
certing are  recognized  as  exact  the  moment 
clinical  surgery  verifies  them.  Action  then 
is,  definitively,  the  supreme  criterion  of  truth. 
If  it  is  proved,  by  facts  simply  verified,  that 
certain  ideas,  absolutely  opposed  to  scientific 
orthodoxy,  enable  certain  men  to  adapt  them- 
selves to  life  and,  on  the  contrary,  that  certain 
other  ideas,  scientifically  orthodox,  do  not 
permit  that  adaptation,  it  is  indisputably 
proved  that  that  scientific  orthodoxy  needs 
revision. 

The  present  "observation"  is  made  with 
no  other  object  than  to  furnish  this  proof  for 
a  case  very  special  in  its  circumstances,  but 
very  general  as  regards  its  intimate  datum. 
Let  us  be  more  exact.  Did  I  say  to  furnish 
this  proof?  No.  To  suggest  it  as  possible, 
since  I  see  it  so.  As  a  savant,  my  conscience 
compels  me  to  record  this  "observation," 


14  The  Night  Cometh 

to  investigate  this  experiment  in  order  to 
extract  whatever  truth  it  may  contain.  To 
see  clearly  into  my  mind,  I  said  just  now. 
These  lucidities  constitute  the  probity  of 
myself  and  other  studious  men. 

Ortegue  would  reply,  on  reading  these 
lines:  "But  I  can  see  very  clearly  into  your 
mind.  Your  father  was  a  professor  of  philo- 
sophy at  Montpellier.  He  was  a  metaphysi- 
cian who  came  into  contact  with  vitalists. 
Your  mother  was  a  devout  Catholic.  You 
are  taking  for  granted  that  the  problem  to 
be  solved  is  the  postulate  of  your  complex 
heredity.  Primo  pur  gar  e"  But  what  savant 
has  ever  worked  with  any  other  instrument 
than  the  brain  formed  by  heredity?  The 
whole  question  is  this:  Is  the  result  obtained 
by  this  instrument  valid  in  itself?  If  I  write 
down  these  notes,  it  is  precisely  in  order  to 
distinguish  better,  in  this  adventure,  my  own 
personal  part  and  the  positive,  indestructible 
remainder,  which  would  be  the  same  for  all 
witnesses. 


Ill 

THE  APPEAL  OF  THE   SUMPTUOUS 

SINCE  facts  are  in  question,  let  us  go 
straight  to  them,  and  first  of  all  to  the 
transformation  of  this  private  Clinigue  into 
a  supplementary  hospital,  which  took  place 
about  the  beginning  of  August,  1914.  It 
was  completed  rapidly.  On  August  ist,  as 
soon  as  the  order  for  mobilization  was  posted 
up,  the  change  was  decided  upon.  The  fol- 
lowing day,  Ortegue  saw  Moreau-Janville, 
the  wealthy  manager  of  the  La  Rochelle 
Forges  et  Chantiers.  By  a  most  audacious 
trepanation  he  had  saved  the  life  of  the  son 
of  this  captain  of  industry,  which  had  been 
jeopardized  in  an  autocar  accident.  Moreau- 
Janville  immediately  agreed,  in  the  name  of 
the  metallurgic  company  of  which  he  is  the 
head,  to  meet  the  expenses  of  the  military 

15 


16  The  Night  Cometh 

Clinique  for  the  duration  of  the  war.  Armed 
with  this  promise,  Ortegue  hastened  to  the 
Ministry  of  War,  where  he  requested  that 
the  house  in  the  Rue  Saint  Guillaume  should 
be  attached  to  the  Val-de-Grace  Hospital, 
in  order  that  he  might  remain  more  completely 
the  master  of  it.  His  application  was  granted, 
and  a  few  days  later,  on  Wednesday,  August 
5th,  we  proceeded  to  make  the  necessary 
modifications. 

Ortegue  showed  his  promptness  of  execu- 
tion in  all  his  acts,  whether  great  or  small.  He 
was  truly  a  surgeon,  in  the  complete  sense  of 
that  beautiful  word,  composed  of  two  others, 
likewise  as  beautiful:  x£*P,  the  hand,  2pre>v, 
the  work.  In  his  case,  to  think  was  to  act. 
There  was  something  direct  and  immediate 
in  his  whole  person.  When  operating,  his 
thin  face,  framed  in  the  gauze  of  the  mask, 
astonished  the  onlooker  through  the  intensity 
of  its  concentration,  his  peculiar  gift,  in  which 
was  absorbed  his  whole  being.  You  could 
see  he  was  living  to  the  very  ends  of  the  steel 
instruments  which  his  long  fingers,  so  dexter- 


The  Appeal  of  the  Sumptuous      17 

ous,  so  supple  in  the  india-rubber  glove, 
handled  in  turn  with  so  much  energy  and 
delicacy.  And  what  anatomical  sureness  of 
vision  he  displayed! 

A  diminutive,  slender,  swarthy  man,  his 
light  brown  warm  eyes  revealed — as  did  his 
general  appearance,  his  slender  bones,  and 
hair  that  for  a  long  time  was  intensely  black — 
a  foreign  and  almost  exotic  atavism.  His 
father,  however,  was  a  simple  notary  of 
Bayonne.  But  his  name  indicates  the  Span- 
ish origin  of  the  family,  and  was  there  not,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Pyrenees,  a  botanist 
named  Ortega,  after  whom  there  is  even  named 
a  plant  of  the  chickweed  variety,  Ortegia  ? 

"I  desire  no  other  survival,"  Ortegue  often 
affirmed  when  mentioning  this  detail,  "than 
that  my  name  be  attached  to  a  scientific  dis- 
covery, small  or  great.  To  determine,  like  my 
namesake  of  Madrid,  a  vegetable  species,  or, 
like  Addison,  Duchenne  of  Boulogne,  Bright, 
the  syndrome  of  a  disease,  is  to  last  as  long  as 
Science.  That  is  the  only  immortality." 

This  passionate  love  of  Science,  of  his  sci- 


i8  The  Night  Cometh 

ence, — "holy  surgery,"  he  used  to  call  it, — 
was  the  fundamental  fact  about  this  man  with 
the  thin  and  imperious  profile  like  that  of  some 
magician  out  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  He 
added  to  it  a  taste,  nay  a  passion  for  sumptu- 
ousness  which  smacked  indeed  of  the  East. 
This  trait  in  his  character,  astonishing  in  the 
case  of  a  master  of  the  surgery  of  the  nervous 
system,  seemed  natural  when  you  looked  at 
him. 

His  house  on  the  Place  des  Etats-Unis  was 
nothing  else  than  a  museum  filled  with  rare 
objects:  furniture,  stuffs,  armour,  tapestries, 
marbles,  and  bronzes.  He  had  gathered  there 
some  twenty  pictures — all  of  them  choice, 
either  through  chance  or  thanks  to  hereditary 
instinct — of  that  curious  Spanish  School  which 
is  so  badly  represented  in  France.  The 
Catalan  master  of  Saint-Georges,  Jacomart 
Bago,  Luis  Dalmau,  and  Jorge  Ingles — names 
of  artists  known  only  to  the  elect — were  famil- 
iar to  the  patients  of  the  celebrated  professor. 
Walking  up  and  down  in  the  waiting-rooms, 
they  could  spell  out  at  length  the  disconcerting 


The  Appeal  of  the  Sumptuous      19 

syllables  at  the  bottom  of  ancient  frames, 
which  were  themselves  worthy  of  the  can- 
vases and  panels.  Classic  names  were  also 
to  be  read  there.  Ortegue  possessed  a  Holy 
Ursula  by  Zurbaran,  a  Saint  Francis,  by 
Murillo,  a  sketch  of  a  cavalier  by  Velasquez, 
and  a  bull-fight  by  Goya. 

In  addition  to  this,  there  was  a  splendid  dis- 
play of  flowers  in  the  rooms,  and  everything 
else  in  keeping:  servants  in  livery,  silver  plate, 
— what  more  need  I  say?  three  autocars! 

This  Arabian  magician  was  a  Parisian  of 
Parisians,  who  had  his  box  at  the  Theatre 
Frangais  and  at  the  Opera  for  every  subscrip- 
tion performance  and  every  dress  rehearsal. 
I  compared  him  just  now  to  a  personage  of 
the  Arabian  Nights.  Morally,  he  paired 
rather  with  Dr.  Faust,  eager  for  all  the  pleas- 
ures of  life  and  clasping  them  all.  His  extra- 
ordinary prestige  over  us,  his  pupils,  was  the 
result  of  this  duality, — a  Prince  of  Science 
living  in  a  princely  manner.  He  appeared  to 
us  to  be  the  very  incarnation  of  success.  A 
professor  at  forty  years  of  age,  after  a  brilliant 


20  The  Night  Cometh 

triumph  in  the  competitive  examinations,  he 
had  attained  every  honour.  He  possessed 
the  power  of  thought.  He  was  crowned  with 
glory.  He  had  money — people  instanced  one 
year  in  which  he  had  "made  a  million  francs!" 
— He  seemed,  up  to  the  time  of  his  terrible 
malady,  to  have  eternal  youth. 

At  forty-four  years  of  age  he  had  been  able, 
without  any  one  taking  it  into  his  or  her  head 
to  find  the  union  ridiculous,  to  marry  a  young 
lady  of  twenty,  who  also  bore  a  name  illus- 
trious in  the  annals  of  medicine, — the  daugh- 
ter of  the  physiologist  Malfan-Trevis,  the 
favourite  pupil  of  Claude  Bernard.  During 
those  years — how  recent,  since  this  marriage 
dates  only  from  1908,  and  yet  how  far  off 
they  seem — Professor  and  Mme.  Ortegue 
never  entered  any  place  of  assembly  whatso- 
ever, whether  a  theatre  or  an  exhibition, 
without  the  young  wife's  provoking  that 
attention  and  admiration  which  fills  the  heart 
of  the  older  husband  with  pride, — until  the 
time  comes  when  it  is  pricked  with  jealousy. 


IV 

THE    MARRIAGE    OF   FORTY-FOUR   AND  TWENTY 

1HAVE  just  laid  down  my  pen  in  order  to 
recall  this  woman,  then  so  happy — now 
so  wretched — in  the  days  when  she  was  the 
betrothed  of  my  master.  With  what  joyful 
tones  he  informed  me  of  the  event,  which  was 
to  us  so  unexpected.  There  floated  around 
him  a  legend  of  good  luck,  incompatible,  it 
seemed,  with  the  naive  enthusiasm  of  such 
phrases  as  these: 

"Yes,  my  dear  Marsal,  I  am  getting 
married  and  I  have  found  the  Ideal.  Do 
you  hear?  The  Ideal.  You  will  agree 
with  me  when  you  see  Catherine.  I  call 
her  by  her  Christian  name.  I've  known 
her  since  she  was  that  height,  and  I  dis- 
covered her  this  winter.  Sometimes  I  ask 
myself:  Have  I  been  a  fool?  She  might 

21 


22  The  Night  Cometh 

have  married  another.  .  .  .  But  you  will 
see  her.  .  .  ." 

Mile.  Malfan-Trevis  justified  his  exaltation. 
At  twenty  she  was  a  tall  and  lissom  young 
woman  with  a  face  of  creamy  complexion,  of 
a  purity  of  line  almost  classic,  and  crowned 
with  a  magnificent  head  of  dark  chestnut  hair 
full  of  golden  gleams.  Her  noble  and  proud 
physiognomy  expressed  at  one  and  the  same 
time  passion,  gravity,  and  grace.  Her  eyes 
especially,  large  and  wondering,  held  in  their 
grey  pupils  a  serious  fixedness  of  expression, 
that  gave  one  the  feeling  of  deep  and  restrained 
sensibility.  The  mouth,  reflective  when  at 
rest,  became  child-like  when  smiling;  her 
somewhat  full  lips  at  such  times  disclosed 
brilliantly  white  teeth,  the  soundness  of  which 
indicated  in  this  still  fragile  creature,  an  un- 
impaired reserve  of  physical  strength  pro- 
mising future  development  of  the  woman  in 
the  happiness  of  marriage. 

An  indescribable  something,  as  of  over- 
concentration,  added  a  pathetic  charm  to  this 
beautiful  face,  at  any  rate  for  those  who 


The  Marriage  of  44  and  20         23 

knew — Ortegue  told  me  at  once — the  trials 
she  had  undergone.  Her  father  had  died  of 
an  attack  under  particularly  cruel  circum- 
stances, in  the  open  street,  and  her  mother 
had  remarried  a  year  afterwards,  under  no 
less  cruel  conditions.  It  was  only  too  evident 
that  Mme.  Malfan-Trevis  was  setting  right  a 
liaison  of  long  standing.  The  young  girl  had 
felt  chilled  to  the  heart  in  the  house  of  this 
mother,  all  of  whose  faults  she  had  not  perhaps 
understood  but  had  felt. 

Did  pity  for  her  moral  solitude  count  for 
something  in  Ortegue' s  love?  Or  was  that 
merely  a  pretext  to  excuse  the  disproportion  of 
their  ages  in  a  marriage  which  was  still  accept- 
able in  1908,  but  which  in  ten  or  twenty  years 
might  take  on  another  complexion.  Was 
there  gratitude  in  the  transport  with  which 
the  orphan  flew  towards  the  saviour  who 
was  delivering  her  from  the  most  painful 
of  situations?  Did  she  love  Ortegue  fo-r 
his  glory,  for  the  genial  strength  of  his  per- 
sonality, for  the  prestige  exercised  over  her 
by  a  superiority  analogous  to  that  with  which 


24  The  Night  Cometh 

the  memory  of  her  father  remained  regretfully 
surrounded? 

Of  one  thing  at  least  I  had  proof:  this  mar- 
riage was  for  her,  as  for  Ortegue,  an  act,  not 
of  reason  but  of  impulse,  and  the  girl's  passion 
was  confessed  with  such  ingenuousness  that 
there  was  but  one  opinion  among  those  present 
at  the  celebration: 

"Why,  she  is  still  more  in  love  with  him 
than  he  is  with  her!" 


V 

SEVEN   YEARS   LATER 

WAS  she  still  as  much  in  love  at  the  date 
I  resume  my  narrative,  that  is  to  say 
seven  years  later,  about  the  beginning  of  the 
month  of  August,  1914?  Had  not  love  given 
place  to  a  feeling  perhaps  more  devoted, 
better  prepared  for  all  sacrifices,  but  of  another 
order?  Why  did  this  question  obtrude  upon 
me  so  forcibly  during  those  days  of  waiting 
in  the  month  of  August  and  whilst  we  were 
installing  our  hospital? 

Mme.  Ortegue  had  expressed  a  desire  to 
preside  over  this  work.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  I  had  come  into  close  and  almost  hourly 
relations  with  her.  She  went  ceaselessly 
backwards  and  forwards,  through  the  bed- 
rooms and  along  the  corridors  of  the  ancient 

mansion;  she  was  as  beautiful  as  ever,  more 

25 


26  The  Night  Cometh 

beautiful,  and  so  impressive  in  her  pure  white 
nurse's  uniform.  I  ought  to  have  seen  in  her 
assiduity  in  a  work  which  associated  her  more 
closely  with  her  husband,  and  also  in  her 
manner  otf  performing  it,  a  proof  that  she  had 
not  changed.  Assuredly,  Ortegue  was  the 
only  man  who  existed  for  her.  Towards  the 
house-surgeons,  officers,  or  myself  she  never 
showed  the  slightest  trace  of  coquetry. 

What  care,  on  the  other  hand,  she  displayed 
in  carrying  out  the  professor's  instructions 
for  the  fitting  up  of  the  dinique  !  Her  feet, 
which  remained  pretty  and  slender  in  their 
heelless  white  shoes,  mounted  and  descended 
indefatigably  the  stone  steps  of  the  main 
staircase,  hurried  from  the  pharmacy  to  the 
linen-room,  or  from  the  operating  theatre  to 
the  sterilization-room.  With  her  slender 
fingers,  on  which  rings  shone  no  more — not 
even  her  wedding-ring,  which  was  pinned  to  her 
apron  by  a  little  Red  Cross  trinket — she  as- 
sisted in  unpacking  bottles  of  oxygenated 
water,  ampoules  of  chloroform,  and  drainage 
tubes.  She  arranged  the  shirts  of  the  wounded, 


Seven  Years  Later  27 

piled  up  the  rolls  of  bandages  and  packets  of 
cotton- wool,  verified  the  dressing- waggons  and 
the  glass-cases  of  shining  steel  instruments. 

She  initiated  herself  into  these  details  of 
our  austere  profession  with  a  display  of  ignor- 
ance which  revealed  what  a  solid  partition 
the  surgeon  had  set  up  between  his  household 
and  the  severe  side  of  his  professional  work. 
But  the  zeal  which  she  exhibited  also  showed 
how  anxious  she  was,  in  these  grave  hours,  to 
share  her  husband's  patriotic  activity. 

These  feverish  preparations  called  up  sinis- 
ter visions,  especially  as  they  coincided  with 
the  early  news  of  the  German  rush  into  Bel- 
gium. Other  nurses,  enrolled  in  our  staff  out 
of  charity,  shuddered  in  advance.  Not  so 
Mme.  Ortegue.  By  the  look  with  which  she 
questioned  the  Professor,  when  he  visited  his 
still  empty  hospital,  one  could  guess  her  sole 
desire,  namely,  to  please  him.  Anxious  when 
he  became  irritated — as  happened  too  often 
for  one  who,  formerly,  had  such  a  mastery 
over  his  nerves — I  observed  that  she  was 
relieved  to  the  point  of  being  radiant  when  he 


28  The  Night  Cometh 

said:  "Good!  Very  good!"  It  would  seem 
that  such  a  desire,  such  a  need  to  satisfy  some- 
one, must  be  love,  and  blessed  love. 

What  obscure  intuition  then  caused  me  to 
have  a  presentiment,  despite  these  signs,  of  a 
latent  tragedy  in  the  lives  of  these  two  beings 
— who,  by  the  way,  were  childless — one  of 
those  dramas  of  the  heart  which  are  enacted 
without  our  knowledge  and  for  our  future 
terror  in  the  obscure  depths  of  our  uncon- 
sciousness? Intuition?  No.  A  piece  of  evid- 
ence: simply  that  of  the  seven — to  be  exact 
six  and  a  half — years  which  have  elapsed 
since  the  afternoon  when  I  heard  Ort£gue's 
confreres  and  pupils,  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
town  hall  of  the  i6th  arrondissement, 
after  the  civil  marriage,  envy  the  attach- 
ment he  had  inspired.  My  strange  master 
had  begged  me  not  to  come  to  the  religious 
marriage. 

"It's  a  concession  I've  made  to  my  wife's 
mother — the  first  I've  ever  made  in  my  life  in 
that  respect.  I  made  it,  and  I  don't  esteem 
myself  for  it.  I  desire  that  my  true  friends, 


Seven  Years  Later  29 

those  of  my  own  way  of  thinking,  among 
whom  I  count  you,  should  not  see  me  at 
church,  acting  untruthfully.  .  .  ." 

The  man  who  thus  spoke  to  me  was  still 
young,  notwithstanding  his  forty-four  years. 
But  though  less  than  fifty-one,  the  Michel 
Ortegue  of  the  month  of  August,  1914,  was 
almost  an  old  man.  Since  the  previous  winter 
I  had  noticed  a  slow  and  constant  alteration 
in  his  fades.  He  was  growing  thinner.  His 
features  were  becoming  hollow.  His  naturally 
dark  complexion  was  becoming  swarthier. 
In  April  and  again  in  June  he  had  two  bilious 
fevers,  followed  by  jaundice.  These  slight 
attacks  of  icterus  had  left  a  yellowness  of  the 
conjunctiva  and  on  the  palms  of  the  hands. 
His  hair  and  beard  had  whitened. 

But  he  remained  ever  so  alert  and  full  of 
life!  He  displayed  such  revivals  of  energy; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  I  was  so  attached  to 
him.  I  refused  to  see  the  terrible  truth  which, 
from  his  whole  appearance,  was  already  ap- 
parent to  the  eyes  of  a  doctor  with  a  certain 
amount  of  experience.  I  was  obstinately 


30  The  Night  Cometh 

bent  on  considering  those  two  attacks  of 
jaundice  as  accidents. 

I  set  down  his  decline  to  over-work — that 
convenient  back-door  for  the  ignorant.  To 
reassure  myself,  I  mentally  reviewed  one  of 
the  days  of  this  indefatigable  worker:  in  the 
morning,  the  Salpetriere,  where  a  special 
section  had  been  created  for  him,  then  the 
Rue  Saint  Guillaume  and  operations  until 
the  hour  for  luncheon,  a  luncheon  which  was 
hastily  swallowed,  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
patients  who  had  come  for  consultations 
were  waiting  at  the  door,  and  visits  to  the 
houses  of  other  patients  were  required;  in  the 
evening,  society  or  the  theatre;  and,  in  addi- 
tion, the  preparation  of  lectures,  the  delivery  of 
the  lectures  themselves,  the  writing  of  original 
memoirs,  journeys  to  the  provinces  and  abroad, 
whither  he  had  been  summoned  to  attend 
some  desperate  case.  The  astonishing  thing 
is  that  Ortegue  had  resisted  up  to  then.  What 
wear  and  tear  to  his  whole  organism  had  been 
endured ! 

With  what  sharpness  the  crude  light  of  the 


Seven  Years  Later  31 

hospital  rooms  made  apparent  to  me  this 
contrast  between  the  ever-increasing  senes- 
cence of  the  husband  and  the  further  and 
further  blossoming  of  the  wife's  youth !  Never 
before  had  I  perceived  it  to  such  an  extent. 
At  his  house,  in  the  sumptuous  penumbra  of 
the  large  crowded  rooms,  Ortegue's  haggard 
face  had  the  striking  character  of  a  portrait. 
Against  the  light  background  of  the  Clinique, 
that  face  was  nothing  more  than  a  human 
wreck,  whereas  she,  with  her  smooth  forehead 
and  cheeks,  her  supple  eyelids,  her  lips  on 
which  lingered  the  suspicion  of  a  smile,  and 
the  pure  line  of  her  neck,  assumed,  between 
these  bare  white  walls,  as  it  were,  the  charm 
of  a  flower. 

Did  this  married  couple  realize  that  their 
very  presence,  side  by  side,  amidst  these  re- 
vealing surroundings,  might  suggest  ironical 
remarks — nay,  worse — to  malevolent  tongues, 
and  also  to  faithful  friends,  like  myself,  sad 
thoughts,  fears,  and  mistrust?  She  certainly 
did  not  suspect  anything.  She  would  not 
have  been  so  simply  filial  in  her  solicitude  for 


32  The  Night  Cometh 

Ortegue,  sometimes  forcing  him  to  sit  down, 
sometimes  closing  a  window  to  shield  him 
from  the  draught,  on  other  occasions  inducing 
him  to  come  in  and  rest. 

But  what  about  Ortegue?  Several  times 
during  the  period  to  which  my  recollections 
now  go  back,  I  observed,  in  the  look  he  gave 
his  young  wife,  a  very  strange  expression.  I 
seemed  to  read  in  it  a  signal  of  distress,  a 
savage  inquisition,  almost  cruelty.  This  man, 
so  long  superb,  and  now  prematurely  aged, 
looking  in  that  way  upon  this  beautiful  crea- 
ture, his  own  possession,  in  all  the  opulence 
of  her  twenty-sixth  year,  and  this  amid  the 
surgical  atmosphere  incident  to  the  awaited 
arrival  of  the  wounded  from  the  battlefield, 
hinted  a  private  drama  against  the  background 
of  the  national  drama.  I  foresaw,  rather  I 
had  a  presentiment,  of  its  painful  gravity. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  matter  of  intuition, 
one  of  those  discomforting  conjectures  which 
detect  effects  by  means  of  causes.  Things 
happen  at  certain  times,  as  though  a  sentiment 
of  reality  awakened  in  us,  more  perspicacious 


Seven  Years  Later  33 

than  any  of  our  senses,  than  our  reason  even. 
A  sense  it  is  which  appertains  to  the  uncon- 
scious, a  thought  all  the  more  subtle  because 
we  are  unacquainted  with  it;  the  communica- 
tion perhaps  between  our  personal  psychism 
and  its  mental  milieu,  that  ambient  psychism 
which  scientific  orthodoxy  does  not  admit. 
But  what  does  it  admit?  And  how  poverty- 
stricken  it  is  when  we  apply  to  it  the  measure 
of  human  reality!  How  well-grounded  was 
he  who  said : 

There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy. 


VI 

THE  COUSIN  FROM  THE  FRONT 

1NOW  reach  the  episode  which  marks  for  me 
the  veritable  opening  of  the  tragedy  of 
which  I  had  a  presentiment.  Until  its  culmina- 
tion it  was  to  develop  parallel  to  the  other 
— the  great  and  terrible  French  tragedy.  In 
unravelling  the  deep  meaning  of  the  individual 
drama  of  which  I  was  a  witness,  I  think  I  can 
see  better  one  of  the  lessons  of  the  immense 
collective  trial  through  which  we  are  still 
passing.  But  let  us  not  anticipate  conclu- 
sions which  ought  to  be  formed  from  facts 
and  facts  only.  Let  us  return  to  these  facts. 
We  were  still  in  the  first  half  of  the  month 
of  August.  War  had  been  declared  ten  days. 
The  fifteen  supplementary  beds,  completing 
the  forty  demanded  by  the  Val-de-Grace, 
had  been  installed.  We  were  living  in  the 

34 


The  Cousin  from  the  Front         35 

midst  of  the  feverish  anxiety  of  historical 
catastrophes,  when  the  hours  seem  at  once  so 
long  and  so  short.  The  days  of  waiting  seem 
endless,  and  then,  when  the  event  occurs,  it 
is  so  enormous  that  one  is  surprised  it  could 
have  come  so  quickly. 

We  experienced  first  of  all  a  feverish  hope, 
which  Ortegue  alone  did  not  share.  I  must 
do  him  this  justice :  he  concealed  his  pessimism 
from  everybody  save  myself.  I  had  accom- 
panied him  to  a  surgical  congress,  held  in 
Berlin,  and  he  reminded  me  of  our  impressions 
at  that  time. 

"These  people  are  formidable  at  organiza- 
tion," he  said.  "You  will  recollect  that  in 
nineteen  hundred  and  four  we  returned  from 
Germany  terrified  by  what  we  had  seen. 
They  have  ten  years'  more  preparation,  and 
we  have  ten  years*  more  bungling.  Draw 
your  own  conclusion." 

"Do  you  count  moral  energy  and  spontane- 
ity as  nothing?"  I  replied.  "Look  at  our 
entrance  into  Alsace." 

"They  are  concentrating,  that  is  all,"  he 


36  The  Night  Cometh 

replied.  "As  for  moral  energy,  go  and  preci- 
pitate yourself  with  that  against  an  autocar!" 

Then,  with  his  thin  face  contracting,  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said: 

"What  good  is  there  in  this  chattering?  A 
doctor's  duty  is  to  know  the  truth,  but  to 
hide  it  from  the  patient." 

This  programme  of  dissimulation  was  easier 
to  draw  up  than  to  observe.  The  Italians 
have  a  trivial  but  expressive  proverb:  "The 
tongue  wags  where  the  tooth  aches."  It  was 
vain  for  Ortegue  to  profess  admiration  for  the 
scientific  character  of  German  "Kultur,"  he 
was  passionately  French  through  the  uncon- 
scious part  of  his  being — that  unconscious 
part  the  existence  of  which  in  all  domains 
he  stoutly  denied.  He  could  no  longer  speak 
with  any  one  without  bursting  into  an  indig- 
nant protest  against  the  invasion  of  Belgium 
and  the  early  outrages.  He  who  formerly 
hardly  ever  opened  a  newspaper  now  bought 
ten,  a  dozen,  fifteen,  and,  like  all  of  us,  threw 
them  aside  immediately  they  were  unfolded, 
disappointed  at  never  finding  anything  in 


The  Cousin  from  the  Front         37 

them  save  an  incomplete  or  adulterated 
truth. 

"If  the  newspapers  related  only  what  they 
knew  for  certain,"  he  said  to  me  one  day 
when  I  showed  him  a  retraction  made  by  an 
evening  sheet  of  a  piece  of  intelligence  which 
had  appeared  in  its  morning  edition,  "they 
would  appear  blank,  and  there  would  be  no 
further  need  of  the  censorship.  But  we  shall 
have  some  exact  information  to-morrow.  You 
know  Ernest  Le  Gallic,  my  wife's  second 
cousin?  You've  met  him  at  my  house  at 
dinner,  when  he  was  a  Saint  Cyrian.  He's 
now  a  lieutenant  in  an  infantry  regiment. 
He  was  in  Alsace.  He  is  coming  to  Paris  for 
a  few  hours,  on  a  mission,  and  tells  me  that  he 
will  call  at  the  Clinique  to  present  his  compli- 
ments before  catching  his  train.  He's  a 
perfect  trooper  and  no  chatterer  about  his 
duties.  Besides,  he  hasn't  a  very  brilliant 
intellect.  But  merely  by  his  tone  we  shall 
know  how  things  are  going,  over  there." 

I  had,  indeed,  often  seen  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  at  the  elaborate  dinners  of  the  Place 


38  The  Night  Cometh 

des  Etats-Unis,  a  young  man  wearing  the 
uniform  of  a  Saint  Cyrian,  a  rather  surprising 
figure  at  the  house  of  the  non-military  Ortegue. 
The  picture  of  a  timid,  awkward  boy,  whose 
voice  I  had  hardly  heard,  remained  in  my 
mind.  I  knew  his  relationship  to  those  in 
the  house  through  having  once  left  one  of 
those  dinners  in  company  with  two  of  Or- 
tegue's  rivals  in  surgery;  I  had  heard  them, 
not  without  a  feeling  of  disgust,  relieve  their 
envy  by  the  following  remarks: 

"Is  the  little  cousin  always  there?" 
"What  an  implication!  For  all  that,  it's 
quite  natural.  Catherine  Ortegue's  mother 
was  a  Mile.  Ferlicot,  and  the  mother  of  this 
little  Le  Gallic  was  also  a  Ferlicot.  She  is 
dead.  I  know  that  family,  root  and  stock. 
They  are  people  of  Treguier  and  I'm  from 
Lannion." 

"It's  all  the  same.  If  I'd  been  so  foolish, 
like  our  genial  friend,  to  marry  a  woman 
twenty-five  years  younger  than  myself,  she 
would  have  had  no  little  cousin.  Do  you 
remember  the  song?" 


The  Cousin  from  the  Front         39 

"Rather,"  replied  the  other,  laughing.  "It 
rejuvenates  me.  I  can  imagine  myself  in 
the  guard-room,"  and  he  began  to  hum  the 
following  lines: 

Nous  etions  trois  d'moisell's  de  magasin, 

Bonn's  fill's,  aimant  a  rire. 
Nous  avions  chacune  un  petit  cousin, 

Un  p'tit  cousin  pour  nous  conduire.  .  .  . 

This  malicious  insinuation  had  made  me 
observe  the  attitude  of  the  Saint  Cyrian 
towards  his  cousin  a  little  more  closely.  I 
had  discerned  in  it  only  respect,  made  all  the 
more  striking  through  its  being  accompanied 
by  a  certain  familiarity  of  manner.  The  two 
young  people  addressed  each  other  in  the 
familiar  second  person  singular,  like  friends 
of  childhood.  In  the  case  of  Ortegue  I  had 
noted  a  cordiality  which  excluded  any  hypo- 
thesis of  jealousy;  this  authoritative  man  dis- 
guised his  slightest  moods  badly.  As  much 
as  the  generosity  of  his  altruism  made  him 
cordial  towards  those  in  whom  he  took  an 
interest,  so  much  did  he  freely  manifest  his 


40  The  Night  Cometh 

antipathy  with  that  habit  of  asserting  his 
personality  which  a  master  such  as  he,  a 
veritable  dictator  in  his  own  department, 
acquires  so  quickly. 


VII 

FAITH  AND   SCEPTICISM 

MY  knowledge  of  this  trait  in  his  charac- 
ter nearly  started  me  on  quite  a  wrong 
track  during  the  visit  of  "little  Le  Gallic," 
as  his  compatriot  of  Lannion  called  him.  I 
was  present  when  the  officer  entered  Ortegue's 
office  at  the  Clinique.  So  was  Mme.  Ortegue. 
We  were  explaining  to  the  Professor  an  in- 
significant detail  of  our  work,  on  which  occa- 
sion he  had  become  irritated  to  the  point  of  an 
almost  morbid  violence.  The  matter  in  ques- 
tion was  a  bill  for  chloroform,  an  overcharge 
by  the  drug  manufacturers,  contrary  to  their 
verbal  agreement.  Something  of  this  irrita- 
tion lingered  in  the  almost  vexed  manner  in 
which,  on  the  new-comer's  arrival,  he  raised 
his  head,  and  in  the  suspicion  of  irony  lurking 

in  his  first  words: 

41 


42  The  Night  Cometh 

"Is  that  you,  Ernest?  .  .  .  Warfare  suits 
you  eh?  You  look  prosperous!  .  .  ." 

This  doubtful  compliment  hardly  suited  the 
young  lieutenant's  appearance.  If  he  gave 
the  impression  of  strength  and  even  joy, 
through  every  feature  of  his  soldierly  face  and 
every  attitude  of  his  well- trained  body,  the 
fountain  head  of  that  strength  and  joy  was 
other  than  health.  With  his  already  worn- 
out  uniform,  his  face  sunburnt  by  the  open- 
ing days  of  the  campaign,  and  an  indescribable 
stiffness  and  suppleness  manifested  at  one 
and  the  same  time  in  his  slightest  movements, 
he  truly  gave  the  impression  of  a  war  work- 
man who  had  come  out  of  danger  and  was 
about  to  return  to  it.  There  was  a  flame-like 
look  in  his  light  Breton  eyes,  which  in  colour 
were  almost  like  the  bluish  grey  eyes  of  his 
cousin.  But  it  was  not  the  joyous  fever  of 
life;  it  was  the  ardour  of  a  determined  will. 
The  indefinite,  undeveloped  face  of  the  Saint 
Cyrian  of  former  days  had  become  wholly 
manly  and  appeased.  The  simplicity  and 
unity  of  his  face — I  cannot  find  a  more  accur- 


Faith  and  Scepticism  43 

ate  description — indicated  a  human  being  in 
complete  harmony  with  himself.  Le  Gallic 
had  a  broad  forehead,  a  slightly  arched  nose, 
almond-shaped  eyes,  straight  eyebrows,  and  a 
strong,  serious  mouth.  His  close-shaven  face, 
under  short  cropped  hair,  appeared  still  more 
intact.  Of  average  stature,  he  presented  so 
military  an  appearance  that  a  suggestion  of 
security  emanated  from  him. 

"The  reason  is  that  I  am  so  happy,  Cousin, " 
he  replied  to  Ortegue's  harsh  words.  "  I  have 
been  living  through  magnificent  days.  That 
entry  into  Alsace  was  so  exciting,  and  how 
keenly  our  men  felt  it!  You  don't  know 
Frenchmen  until  you  have  led  them  into 
action.  And  we've  had  some  warm  encount- 
ers already.  That  is  promising.  We've  had 
two  fights,  I've  no  right  to  tell  you  where,  but 
somewhere, — serious  ones,  and  crowned  with 
victory!  ...  If  we  continue  in  the  same 
fashion,  you  will  shortly  learn  that  we  have 
crossed  the  Rhine." 

"Ah!  how  good  it  is  to  hear  you  talk  like 
that,"  said  Mme.  Ortegue,  who,  turning  to- 


44  The  Night  Cometh 

wards  the  Professor,  added:  "You  see,  dear, 
you  are  wrong  in  being  pessimistic." 

"You  a  pessimist,  Cousin?"  questioned  the 
officer.  "That  is  very  unlike  you.  I  wish 
you  had  been  present  when  I  completed  my 
preparations  at  Riom.  My  orderly  said  to 
me,  '  You  seem  to  take  a  pleasure,  sir,  in  going 
to  war?'  'Why,  yes,  and  you?'  'Oh,  I'm 
happy  anywhere,  provided  I  follow  you,  sir. 
And  then,  I  know  that  this  time  we  shall  get 
'em.*  That's  the  sort  of  men  we  possess. 
And  we  shall  get  the  Germans  this  time,  Cousin. 
Believe  me:  I'm  sure  of  it.  Shall  I  tell  you 
why?  My  view  doesn't  accord  with  your 
ideas,  but  I  see  it  so  clearly  that  I  cannot  re- 
main silent.  Defeated,  France  would  perish, 
and  she  ought  not  to  perish,  because  she  re- 
mains the  great  Catholic  country.  Yes,  in 
spite  of  her  government,  her  electors,  her 
codes,  her  newspapers — in  spite  of  everything. 

"Listen;  before  leaving  Riom  we  celebrated 
mass.  Almost  the  whole  regiment  attended, 
and  half  received  the  communion.  This  mass 
was  said  by  one  of  our  soldiers.  I  can  assure 


Faith  and  Scepticism  45 

you,  red  trousers  under  the  folds  of  an  alb 
make  a  tremendous  impression.  What  a 
miracle  all  the  same,  Cousin! — you  who  do  not 
believe  in  them — that  that  bill  relating  to  the 
military  service  of  priests,  which  was  to  de- 
stroy religion,  should  have  resulted  in  this 
religious  propaganda  in  the  army.  A  few  days 
ago,  on  the  eve  of  our  first  encounter  with 
the  enemy,  the  commander,  who  is  a  great 
Christian,  said  to  our  men:  'My  lads,  let 
those  who  wish  to  receive  absolution  kneel 
down.  Monsieur  1'Abbe  is  going  to  give  it 
us. '  Well,  they  all  went  down  on  their  knees. 
I'm  not  telling  you  this  story,  Cousin,  in  order 
to  convert  you.  You  know  that  I  would  not 
take  the  liberty  of  speaking  to  you  about 
these  things;  but  you  are  following  this  war, 
and  from  now  I  would  bring  you  my  testi- 
mony. You  who  believe  only  in  experience, 
close  not  your  eyes,  I  beg  of  you,  to  this  bit  of 
experience.  We  shall  conquer,  because  God 
is  with  us." 

Ort£gue   listened   to   this   speech   without 
interrupting,  but  all  the  while  he  bit  the  end 


46  The  Night  Cometh 

of  his  moustache.  I  knew  this  habit  of  his 
manifested  itself  in  moments  of  nervous- 
ness, when,  for  instance,  on  visiting  in  the 
afternoon  a  patient  on  whom  he  had  operated 
in  the  morning,  he  found  that  patient  had  a 
temperature.  To  this  profession  of  exalted 
faith  he  replied  in  a  tone  as  cutting  as  the 
blade  of  one  of  his  surgical  instruments : 

"If  we  are  the  conquerors,  my  friend,  it  will 
simply  be  because  we  have  the  best  guns,  the 
best  rifles,  the  best  generals,  and  the  best  sol- 
diers/' Then,  in  response  to  a  gesture  from 
the  other,  he  gave  a  sort  of  a  sneer  and  cut  the 
discussion  short  by  quoting  two  lines,  doubt- 
less learnt  in  his  student  years,  for  he  did  not 
waste  much  time  now  in  reading  the  poets : 

Quittons  ce  sujet-c.i,  dit  Mardoche,  je  voi 

Que  vous  avez  le  crane  autrement  fait  que  moi.  .  .  . 

Turning  towards  his  wife,  he  went  on  to 
say  suddenly: 

"Catherine,  we  must  put  an  end  to  this 
chloroform  business  at  once.  Marsal  will 
dictate  to  you  a  letter  that  will  settle  it.  You 


Faith  and  Scepticism  47 

will  type  it  out  in  duplicate.  .  .  .  Yes,  my 
dear  Le  Gallic,  your  cousin  has  just  learnt  how 
to  play  on  that  commercial  instrument."  He 
pointed  to  a  typewriter.  "  During  the  war 
she  will  act  as  secretary  to  the  Clinique.  You 
see  that  we  are  all  of  us  working  here,  each 
according  to  his  or  her  capacity.  And  the 
work  will  be  well  done,  I  assure  you,  and  will 
be  useful,  although  everything  is  laical  in  the 
Rue  Saint  Guillaume,  from  the  master  and 
the  mistress  to  the  nurses.  But  you've  cer- 
tainly got  a  few  minutes  to  give  us.  I'll  show 
you  our  installation.  It's  not  bad." 

He  led  away  the  officer,  and  I  heard  him 
continuing  his  explanations  in  the  corridor. 

"Look.  I've  had  bouquets  of  flowers 
painted  over  each  door,  and  each  room  named 
after  a  flower.  The  Carnation  Room,  the 
Lilac  Room,  the  Rose  Room.  Are  not  these 
pretty  names,  as  good  as  that  of  St.  Lawrence, 
who  calls  up  the  idea  of  a  gridiron,  or  that  of 
St.  Labre,  which  is  scarcely  aseptic?  ..." 


VIII 
A  WIFE'S  ANXIETY 

DURING  this  conversation  Mme.  Ort£gue 
had  certainly  felt  the  same  uneasiness 
as  I  did.  This  raillery  of  a  common  saw-bones 
was  very  unworthy  of  the  clever  man  who 
allowed  himself  to  use  it,  and  towards  whom? 
However  naive  Le  Gallic  may  have  appeared 
in  his  outburst  of  religious  faith,  he  had  just 
come  from  the  battlefield.  His  courage  in 
risking  his  life  was  too  strong  a  guarantee  of 
the  sincerity  of  his  convictions  to  permit  his 
being  deprived  of  his  right  to  respect.  The 
ill-concealed  irritation  to  which  Ortegue  had 
given  way  did  not  arise  from  the  mystic  de- 
clarations of  his  interlocutor.  A  savant  of 
this  type,  who  has  reached  total  and  definitive 
agnosticism,  through  the  operating-theatre 

and  the  laboratory,  is  not  annoyed  by  a  be- 

48 


A  Wife's  Anxiety  49 

liever  any  more  than  he  would  be  by  a  child 
or  a  maniac.  Le  Gallic's  mere  presence  and 
not  his  words  had  produced  this  irritation. 
But  why? 

To  this  question  the  sudden,  extraordinary 
agitation  of  Mme.  Ortegue  suggested  a  too 
plausible  reply.  While  I  dictated  the  letter 
to  the  drug  manufacturers,  her  hands  trembled. 
The  frequent  breaks  and  renewals  of  effort 
in  tapping  the  typewriter  suggested  the  same 
answer  as  the  mistakes  made  by  her  fingers 
which  missed  the  keys.  Had,  then,  her  young 
cousin,  so  handsome  and  so  interesting,  awak- 
ened, when  contrasted  with  the  middle-aged 
husband,  too  keen  a  regret  in  this  woman's 
heart?  I  thought  so  at  that  time.  But  if 
that  was  the  case,  she  certainly  did  not  intend 
to  confess  it.  For  I  felt  that  she  was  abso- 
lutely genuine  in  the  question  which  she  sud- 
denly asked  me,  when  withdrawing  the  printed 
sheet  from  the  machine. 

"My  husband  was  not  very  nice  to  my 
cousin.  Didn't  you  think  so  yourself,  Marsal? 
Don't  say  no.  I  read  your  astonishment  on 


So  The  Night  Cometh 

your  face.  Yet  he  is  very  fond  of  him.  This 
morning,  even,  he  spoke  of  him  to  me  with 
the  greatest  affection.  Only  .  .  ."  She  hesi- 
tated. "He  gets  irritated  now  over — the 
slightest  thing,  and  sometimes  his  irritation 
is  out  of  all  proportion.  For  instance,  this 
error  in  a  bill — a  mere  nothing  .  .  ."  Again 
she  hesitated.  "  Formerly  he  had  so  equable 
a  temperament.  He  has  changed ;  he  is  chang- 
ing. I  have  observed  him  carefully.  It  is 
purely  physical.  Mentally,  intellectually,  he 
is  the  same.  ...  So  I  fear  for  his  health. 
You,  who  are  a  doctor,  and  have  known  him 
so  long,  what  do  you  think  of  him?" 

"He  works  a  great  deal,"  I  replied,  "and 
perhaps  too  much.  Then,  the  seriousness  of 
events.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  she  exclaimed,  "I've  said  that  to 
myself,  and  I'm  frightened.  I  tell  you  again 
I'm  frightened — frightened  that  he  has  got 
something  the  matter  with  him,  something 
serious ;  I  cannot  get  him  to  eat.  He  is  grow- 
ing terribly  thin.  Even  since  his  jaundice. 
He  does  not  appear  to  have  got  rid  of  it." 


A  Wife's  Anxiety  51 

Whilst  questioning  me,  her  eyes,  wider 
open,  more  astonished  and  even  more  serious 
than  usual,  were  fixed  upon  me  with  a  scruti- 
nizing and  penetrating  gaze.  I  now  read 
therein  the  search  for  and  the  fear  of  a  truth, 
equally  insupportable  if  ignored  or  known.  I 
also  had  foreseen,  as  a  possible  explanation 
of  this  too  evident  change  in  Ortegue,  a  ter- 
rible hypothesis.  This  idea,  thrown  aside 
as  soon  as  conceived,  was  imposed  upon  me 
again  by  this  woman's  increasing  anguish, 
and,  thinking  aloud,  I  was  astonished  to  hear 
myself  echo  her  cry  of  alarm. 

"There  are  many  times,  indeed,  when  he 
makes  me  anxious.  ..." 

"You  see!"  And  seizing  my  arm  convul- 
sively, "What  can  be  the  matter  with  him? 
Tell  me  everything.  I  have  the  courage  to 
hear  it  all." 

"I  have  never  either  questioned  or  auscul- 
tated him,"  I  replied,  frightened  in  turn  by 
the  agitation  into  which  she  had  been  thrown 
by  a  useless  and  imprudent  avowal,  which 
had  no  real  medical  justification. 


52  The  Night  Cometh 

"Well,"  she  continued,  "question  him, 
auscultate  him,  and  not  to-morrow  but  to-day. 
I  have  always  heard  you  tell  everybody  that 
a  good  diagnosis,  made  in  time,  may  prevent 
catastrophes.  ..." 

"Do  not  say  such  things,  Madam,"  I  inter- 
rupted sharply.  "Do  not  think  them.  .  .  ." 

"It  rests  with  you  to  ease  my  mind,"  she 
replied.  "Do  not  you  yourself  feel  the  need 
to  know?  For  you  are  fond  of  my  husband. 
On  so  many  occasions  you  have  shown  that 
you  are  fond  of  him.  This  uncertainty  must 
be  intolerable  also  to  you." 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  must  admit  that,  con- 
sidering the  Professor's  character,  such  an 
inquisition  ..." 

"Is  very  difficult?  "  she  broke  in.  "Yes, 
I  acknowledge  that.  All  I  ask  is  that  you 
try.  .  ." 

"Very  good!"  I  exclaimed,  conquered  by 
the  spectacle  of  her  anxiety.  "I  will  try." 

"To-day,"  she  said  imperiously.  "You 
must  speak  to  him  to-day.  Why  put  it  off 
when  the  slightest  delay  is  dangerous?  And 


A  Wife's  Anxiety  53 

then,  I  know  him;  he  is  in  one  of  those  moods 
when  he  has  not  complete  control  over  him- 
self. Perhaps  he  will  tell  you.  .  .  ." 

"Very  good,  Madam — I  will  try  to-day, 
although  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  me  with  a  look.  She  bent  her 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  corridor  to  listen. 
Owing  to  her  extreme  over-excitement  she 
could  detect  sounds  which  were  still  imper- 
ceptible to  me.  She  let  go  my  arm,  which  her 
hand  had  continued  to  grip,  and,  in  a  very  loud 
and  artificial  voice,  in  which,  nevertheless,  I  felt 
the  trembling  of  her  heart,  said  laughingly : 

"I  don't  know  where  my  head  is  to-day. 
This  letter  is  full  of  errors.  I  must  rewrite 
it,  so  as  not  to  be  scolded  too  much  when  the 
Professor  returns.*' 

She  had  slipped  a  white  sheet  into  the 
machine  and  the  tap  tap  of  the  little  keys 
was  again  proceeding  when  the  door  opened. 
Ortegue  re-entered,  accompanied  by  Le  Gallic. 
Although  Mme.  Ortegue's  promptitude  in 
mastering  herself  once  more  proved  to  me 
woman's  disconcerting  power  of  restraint,  it 


54  The  Night  Cometh 

never  occurred  to  me  that  she  might  be  play- 
ing a  part  and  placing  to  the  account  of  a 
wifely  disquietude  a  trouble  caused  by  another 
sentiment.  Besides,  Ortegue's  appearance 
justified  too  strongly  the  worst  fears.  His 
sorry  outline,  in  juxtaposition  with  that  of 
the  young  officer,  so  vigorous  and  so  supple, 
seemed  still  more  painful,  more  obviously 
marked  with  the  signs  of  the  approaching  end. 
His  face,  yellower  and  more  emaciated  than 
usual,  was  contracted,  as  though  a  fit  of  sharp 
pain  was  torturing  him  at  that  very  moment. 
His  wasted  body  was  bent  forward,  his  shriv- 
elled hands  were  on  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 
The  courageous  man  had  the  energy,  however, 
to  approach  his  wife  with  a  smile. 

"Le  Gallic's  astonishment  would  have 
amused  you,  my  dear,"  he  began.  "He  had 
never  dreamt  of  an  installation  like  this.  I've 
told  him  he  must  compliment  you  for  it  and 
not  me.  You  have  really  transformed  the 
Clinigue  during  the  last  ten  days.  That 
soldiers'  dormitory  in  the  old  chapel  is  a 
marvellous  idea." 


A  Wife's  Anxiety  55 

"It  is  indeed  true/*  insisted  the  officer, 
"that  the  Professor  and  you  have  organized 
an  ideal  hospital  amidst  these  painted  wains- 
cotings,  this  delightfully  fresh  garden,  these 
beautiful  old  trees,  these  green  lawns,  and  these 
beds  of  flowers  under  all  the  windows/ '  Then, 
seriously  and  with  changed  accent:  "I've 
only  one  fault  to  find  with  your  hospital. 
One  would  be  too  comfortable  in  it  to 
die.M 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  don't  belong  to  the 
medical  department,  my  gallant  Ernest," 
said  Ortegue,  now  standing  upright,  for  evi- 
dently the  intensity  of  the  pain  was  diminishing. 
Serious  in  his  turn,  he  added,  with  singular 
stress:  "You  can  never  make  a  dying  man 
too  comfortable.  My  watchword  when  face 
to  face  with  a  hopeless  case,  is:  Forward, 
blessed  morphine!  For  really  what  is  the 
use  of  suffering?" 

"Atonement,"  replied  Le  Gallic  in  the  same 
tone  of  profound  truth.  • 

"Atonement  for  what?"  asked  Ortegue. 

"Why,  our  sins,"  said  Le  Gallic.     He  hesi- 


56  The  Night  Cometh 

tated  a  moment  before  adding:  "And  those 
of  others/' 

"Our  sins, — that  is  understandable/'  ex- 
claimed Ortegue.  "And  yet!  .  .  ."  He  also 
momentarily  hesitated  before  continuing,  bit- 
terly: "Our  sins?  As  if  we  had  asked  for 
life.  What  right  then  has  He  who  imposed 
it  upon  us  to  require  us  to  render  an  account? 
.  .  ."  Then,  passionately:  "But  the  sins  of 
others?"  He  repeated:  "Of  others?  Come 
now.  That  is  monstrous!  .  .  .  Pardon  me, 
my  dear  Ernest,  if  I  wound  you.  .  .  ." 

"No,"  said  Le  Gallic,  "you  grieve  me. 
As  everything  in  life  ends  in  suffering  and 
death,  if  suffering  and  death  have  not  that 
significance,  that  of  redemption,  what  signi- 
ficance have  they,  and  what  meaning  has 
life?" 

"None,"  said  Ortegue. 

There  was  silence.  That  word,  coming 
from  the  mouth  of  a  man  evidently  so  ill,  in 
that  room  of  a  war  hospital,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  officer  who  would  be  in  action 
on  the  morrow,  had  truly  a  strange  sound. 


A  Wife's  Anxiety  57 

He  who  had  uttered  it  was  himself  embar- 
rassed.   He  continued: 

"We  will  discuss  philosophy  and  religion 
when  you  return  a  captain,  decorated  with 
the  Legion  of  Honour.  And  once  more,  do 
not  bear  a  grudge  against  me  on  account  of 
my  unbelief  any  more  than  I  do  against  you 
because  of  your  belief.  The  fact  that  we  do 
not  all  possess  the  same  cerebral  constitution 
has  never  prevented  two  large-hearted  men 
from  loving  and  esteeming  each  other,  and 
you  know  that  I  love  and  esteem  you  much. 
Even  before  I  saw  you,  just  now,  so  coura- 
geous, so  brisk,  I  was  quite  sure  that,  in 
active  service,  you  would  do  your  whole  duty 
and  more.  .  .  .  But  you  are  in  a  hurry.  .  .  . 
Come,  embrace  me,  and  good  luck.  .  .  .  Send 
us  frequent  news;  lots  of  post-cards.  .  .  . 
Catherine,  show  your  cousin  the  way,  and 
come  up  afterwards  to  the  pharmacy.  There 
is  a  whole  arrival  up  there  to  be  checked. 
I'm  going  to  look  over  your  letter  with  Marsal 
and  make  the  corrections.  .  .  .  An  revoir, 
Ernest.  You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you?  .  .  ." 


IX 

A   MAN   DOOMED 

ON  reaching  the  threshold,  Mme.  Ortegue 
turned  round  and  gave  me  a  look  which 
signified:  "Now  is  the  time.  Try."  That 
look  of  loving  anxiety,  Ernest  Le  Gallic's 
perfect  naturalness  when  walking  out  with 
his  cousin,  the  simplicity  with  which  Ortegue 
gave  the  young  people  the  opportunity  of 
this  farewell  tete-a-tete,  everything  completed 
the  denial  of  my  first  ideas.  Later,  I  came 
to  understand  the  contradictory  and  secret 
meaning  of  these  various  scenes:  Mme.  Or- 
tegue no  longer  loving  her  husband  with 
passion,  but  with  affection,  with  gratitude, 
and  refusing  to  admit  it  to  herself,  too  tor- 
tured, besides,  by  the  enigma  of  her  husband's 
health  to  heed,  in  her  anxiety,  the  feelings  of 

another; — that  other,  Ernest  Le  Gallic,  loving 

58 


A  Man  Doomed  59 

his  cousin  with  a  passion  too  long  repressed 
not  to  have  been  mastered;  yet,  because  of 
his  exalted  piety,  incapable  of  risking  a  single 
word  which  would  have  made  this  last  visit 
a  guilty  one.  Finally,  Ortegue,  stifling  a 
tragic  secret,  pricked  by  envy  rather  than 
by  jealousy  in  the  tender  spot  of  his  heart, 
through  the  comparison  of  his  degeneration 
with  the  officer's  flaunting  youth.  For  in 
leading  Le  Gallic  away,  far  from  his  wife,  he 
had  surrendered  to  a  mean  impulse,  which 
already  made  him  blush. 

How  these  hidden  truths  are  now  made 
clear  to  me!  At  the  time,  a  single  impression 
ruled  me, — the  consciousness  that  now,  if 
ever,  was  th,e  time  for  my  difficult  inquiry. 
Ortegue's  change  of  front  and  sudden  effusion 
revealed  an  interior  trouble,  by  which  it  was 
wise  to  profit.  But  how  dare  I  do  so?  The 
very  presence  of  this  great  man  exercised 
such  a  hypnotic  influence  over  me  that  I  had 
not  a  particle  of  courage  left. 

"  Catherine  is  right,  there  are  really  too 
many  errors  here/'  he  exclaimed,  after  glanc- 


60  The  Night  Cometh 

ing  at  the  first  copy  of  the  letter.  The  second 
hung  from  the  machine,  unfinished.  His 
remark  proved  he  had  heard  the  words  she 
had  spoken  when  he  was  about  to  re-enter 
the  room.  He  added:  "Where,  indeed,  were 
her  thoughts  ?" 

His  hollow  face  was  contracted  in  the  same 
manner  as  before.  Doubtless  he  was  again 
feeling  a  twinge  of  distrust — a  sharp  twinge, 
notwithstanding  its  vagueness.  I  had  an 
intuition  of  this,  but  as  he  sat  down,  leaning 
on  the  table  with  his  hand,  his  posture  ex- 
pressed such  physical  suffering,  so  little  dis- 
guised, that  I  cried  out  instinctively: 

"  You  are  not  well,  mon  cher  maitre  ?" 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  he  replied,  raising 
his  head,  the  head  of  an  Arabian  prince,  in 
the  customary  haughty  manner. 

"  Because  you  seem  to  be  suffering,"  Hav- 
ing burnt  my  boats,  I  continued.  "You  are 
as  you  were  ten  minutes  ago,  when  you  re- 
turned with  your  hands  here."  I  imitated 
his  bent  attitude,  doubled  in  two,  with  his 
fists  on  the  epigastrium. 


A  Man  Doomed  61 

"  Ah!"  he  said,  rising;  and  then,  in  a  weaker 
voice,  he  added:  ''You  noticed  that?" 

He  took  a  few  steps  up  and  down  the  room. 
Then,  walking  straight  to  me,  he  placed  his 
hands  on  my  shoulders,  and,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  mine,  said : 

"Marsal,  can  you  give  me  your  word  of 
honour  that  the  disclosure  I  am  going  to  make 
to  you  will  remain  between  us,  absolutely — 
that  you  will  repeat  not  a  word  about  it  to 
any  one,  and  above  all  not  to  my  wife  ?  .  .  ." 

"I  cannot  make  that  promise,  mon  cher 
maitre,"  I  replied,  "before  knowing.  .  .  . 
You  wish  to  speak  to  me  of  your  condition, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  astonished. 

"But  the  reason  why  I  took  the  liberty 
of  questioning  you  just  now  is  that  Mme. 
Ortegue  is  anxious  about  your  health.  She 
it  was  who  asked  me  to  mention  this  subject 
to  you.  .  .  ." 

"She  also!"  he  groaned,  with  an  accent 
which  cut  me  to  the  heart.  He  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  remained  for  perhaps 


62  The  Night  Cometh 

a  minute  in  that  spasm  of  grief.  Then  he 
pulled  himself  together,  and  revealing  his 
forehead,  his  eyes,  his  mouth  illumined  by 
that  ardent  look  of  determination  which  I 
had  so  often  seen  in  the  course  of  excessively 
dangerous  operations,  he  said:  "It  was  bound 
to  happen.  You  can  at  least  promise  to  say 
simply,  when  she  questions  you,  that  you 
found  me  ill,  but  that  you  do  not  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  me.  It's  the  word  which 
she  must  not  be  told — the  terrible  word. 
Promise  me,  on  your  honour,  that  you  will 
not  state  anything  precisely.  I  have  urgent 
need  to  speak  to  you.  I  can  do  so  only  on 
that  condition.  .  .  ."  And  in  an  imploring 
voice — imagine  Ortegue  imploring ! — ' '  The 
dying  have  their  rights,  Marsal,  and  I  am  a 
dying  man.  ..." 

"That  cannot  be  true,  mon  cher  maitre" 
I  cried,  "and  I  assure  you  .  .  ." 

"It  is  true/'  he  broke  in.  "Do  you 
promise?" 

"I  promise,"  I  stammered. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  with  evident  relief. 


A  Man  Doomed  63 

And,  once  more  calm,  he  went  on:  " Friend, 
I've  not  three  months  to  live."  He  stopped 
me  with  a  gesture.  "You  shall  judge  for 
yourself." 

A  sofa,  used  for  examinations,  encumbered 
one  of  the  corners  of  the  little  room.  He 
stretched  himself  upon  it,  undid  his  waistcoat, 
raised  his  knees,  and,  guiding  my  hand,  said: 

"  There,  under  the  floating  ribs,  feel  about. 
Do  you  feel  the  edge  of  the  liver  with  its 
little  nodus?  .  .  .  Yes?  Now  find  the  biliary 
vesicle.  .  .  .  Have  you  got  it?  ...  Notice 
that  pear-shaped  tumour  produced  by  the 
bile,  which  no  longer  circulates.  Remember 
Courvoisier-Terrier's  sign.  The  vesicle  is 
dilated.  Therefore  it  is  not  a  question  of  a 
biliary  stone.  .  .  .  Stop.  ..." 

He  had  removed  my  hand  and  was  sitting 
up.  For  a  moment  his  eyelids  trembled. 

"I  have  hurt  you,"  I  cried,  more  and  more 
agitated. 

"Not  you,"  he  responded  very  softly. 
"But  the  nervous  threads  invaded  by  the  neo- 
plasma."  He  indicated  a  spot  on  a  level 


64  The  Night  Cometh 

with  the  last  dorsal  vertebra.  "The  pain  is 
here — an  intense,  terebrating,  tearing  pain. 
It  irradiates  everywhere.  The  only  way  I 
can  control  it  a  little  is  to  bend  my  body  for- 
ward, in  the  manner  which  struck  you.  When 
I'm  alone,  I  lie  on  this  sofa,  doubled  up,  like 
the  cock  of  a  gun.  It  is  passing.  I  will  spare 
you  the  other  symptoms.  They  are  too 
humiliating.  I  have  observed  them  all — one 
by  one.  You  remember  my  icterus?  It  was 
light  and  fugitive.  It  is  intermittent.  Added 
to  the  rest,  an  error  is  out  of  the  question. 
My  dear  Marsal,  I  have  a  cancer  at  the  head 
of  the  pancreas.  I  am  doomed." 

Never,  in  his  most  applauded  lessons  at 
the  Faculty,  had  he  displayed  greater  clear- 
ness of  speech,  more  decision  in  his  look,  more 
certainty  in  his  affirmations.  On  hearing 
those  words,  "I  am  doomed,"  I  recollected 
the  great  Trousseau  summing  up  to  Peter,  in 
the  same  terms,  his  own  diagnosis.  That 
resigned  sadness  of  which  Peter  writes  was 
before  me  now.  It  had  been  Trousseau's. 
It  was  Ortegue's.  During  those  never-to-be- 


A  Man  Doomed  65 

forgotten  minutes  scientific  verification  be- 
stowed on  the  great  surgeon  that  intellectual 
serenity  in  which  ancient  stoicism  sought  its 
strength.  Like  Trousseau,  he  detached  him- 
self from  his  personal  destiny  in  order  to 
behold  in  himself  merely  the  verification  of  a 
chapter  on  internal  pathology. 

As  to  his  diagnosis,  I  doubted  it  no  more  than 
Peter  had  doubted  that  of  Trousseau.  In 
the  present  case,  it  was  the  key  to  the  crypto- 
gram, which  revealed  the  whole  meaning  with 
mathematical  certainty.  The  vague  obser- 
vations I  had  made,  or  rather  which  had  come 
to  me  recently,  appeared  in  a  light  of  sinister 
truth.  I  did  not  even  attempt  to  argue  with 
that  heroic  and  pitiless  spirit  of  the  savant. 
I  stood  there  dumfounded  with  admiration, 
if  I  may  say  so.  Ortdgue's  sudden  calmness 
in  the  midst  of  such  a  revelation  clothed  him 
in  my  eyes  with  a  grandeur  that  was  impres- 
sive to  the  point  of  being  august.  Without 
uttering  a  word,  I  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it. 
He  returned  the  pressure  with  a  look  which 
again  signified,  "Thank  you,"  and  continued: 


66  The  Night  Cometh 

"You  will  understand  now  why  I  had  that 
fit  of  anger,  or  wha.t  almost  amounted  to 
anger,  just  now,  when  poor  Le  Gallic  came  to 
display  to  us  the  optimism  of  an  incompetent. 
That  he  should  be  wonderstruck  through 
imagining  a  psychism  without  a  nervous 
system  is  excusable.  He  has  never  dissected. 
But  he  comes  from  the  battlefield.  He  is 
returning  to  the  battlefield.  That  dreadful 
word  War  has  been  construed  in  his  brain, 
during  the  past  few  days,  into  horrible  visions, 
which  he  knows  to  be  real:  shattered  limbs, 
opened  stomachs,  broken  skulls — all  the  fero- 
city of  the  ancestral  brute  let  loose  in  man — 
cries,  shrieks,  death-sobs,  death-rattles,  and, 
as  the  culmination,  the  charnel-house. 

"Well,  here's  a  fine  fellow  who  learns 
nothing  from  these  abominations — to  whom 
they  represent  nothing.  He  reasons  from 
these  facts  no  more  than  if  he  had  never  en- 
countered them.  He  comes  to  talk  to  us  of 
the  kindliness  of  God!  He  himself  is  young 
and  robust,  a  fine  lad — you  have  seen  him. 
He  may  be  killed  to-morrow,  and  at  this  very 


A  Man  Doomed  67 

minute  in  Europe  there  are  millions  of  young 
men  like  him,  who  throw  themselves  into 
this  butchery,  for  nothing,  because  an  idiotic 
idea  of  conquest  passed  through  the  brain  of 
a  degenerate,  suffering  from  a  suppurative 
and  incurable  otitis.  You  and  I  explain  this 
madness  very  simply  by  the  animal  origin 
of  man,  by  the  reappearance  in  civilized  man 
of  the  primitive  great  anthropoid.  But  he, 
as  you  heard,  is  as  firm  as  a  rock  in  his  belief 
that  an  all-powerful  and  perfect  being,  his 
God,  presides  over  these  massacres.  He  finds 
a  meaning  for  them  in  the  justice  and  good- 
ness of  this  God ! 

"At  the  Hotel  Dieu  I  had  a  comrade  who 
found  amusement  in  frightening  an  old  Sister 
of  Mercy  by  saying  to  her:  '  If  God  existed, 
Sister,  he  would  merit  penal  servitude.'  Mar- 
sal,  he  was  right.  For  let  us  suppose  that 
this  God  exists,  and  take  my  own  case  .  .  . 
What?  Being  good  and  just,  He  created  me, 
Michel  Ortegue,  in  order  that,  at  the  age  of 
fifty,  when  wealthy,  celebrated,  and  married 
to  a  woman  I  adore,  all  this  happiness  should 


68  The  Night  Cometh 

be  brutally  snatched  from  me,  though  I  have 
spent  the  whole  of  my  life  in  the  relief  of 
suffering,  in  the  curing  of  people  condemned 
to  death?  Surgery  of  the  nervous  system  is 
only  that.  And  I  am  struck  down  at  the 
time  when  I  might  be  more  useful  than  ever! 
As  a  result  of  these  modern  armaments  there 
are  going  to  be  more  wounds  to  the  brain  and 
the  spinal-cord,  in  this  war,  than  in  any  other. 
And  men  will  die,  men  will  remain  paralysed 
or  imbecile,  will  become  blind,  because  Michel 
Ortegue,  who  would  have  saved  them,  will 
himself  die,  during  that  time,  of  this  absurd 
cancer — caused  by  what?  By  the  most  stupid 
of  accidents, — the  bursting  of  an  autocar  tyre, 
while  my  colleague  Salvan  and  I  were  on  our 
way  to  a  consultation  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Versailles.  The  car  capsized.  You  recollect. 
The  incident  was  reported  in  the  newspapers 
at  the  time.  The  chauffeur  escaped.  Salvan 
escaped.  I  received  a  violent  blow  on  the 
inner  side  of  the  abdomen.  I  was  doubtless 
predisposed,  and  behold  me  now!  .  .  ." 
There  was  now  a  sound  of  revolt  in  his  voice, 


A  Man  Doomed  69 

and  the  rancorous,  almost  personal  hatred 
against  religious  consolation  which  I  had  ever 
noted  in  him.  I  continued  to  say  not  a  word. 
Whereas,  shortly  before,  I  had  felt  the  beauty 
of  his  attitude,  in  the  presence  of  his  terrible 
diagnosis,  I  now  experienced  merely  the  trag- 
edy of  that  diagnosis.  The  time  in  which  we 
lived,  that  threatening  entry  into  a  monstrous 
war,  added  a  more  terrifying  character  to  the 
distress  of  this  illustrious  surgeon,  condemned 
to  death,  and  aware  of  his  fate.  A  flood  of 
pity  welled  up  in  my  heart,  and,  taking  his 
hand  again,  I  repeated,  impulsively: 
' '  My  poor  master !  My  poor  master ! ' ' 
This  time  he  drew  away  his  hand  and  shook 
his  head  impatiently.  He  objected  to  be 
pitied.  Pride  gave  him  the  same  strength  as 
Science  had  bestowed  a  few  moments  before, 
and  he  mastered  himself  again,  in  order  to 
finish  what  he  had  to  say: 

"I  have  just  been  speaking  to  you  like  a 
child,  Marsal, — almost  as  foolishly  as  Le  Gallic. 
There  is  nothing  absurd  in  the  world,  for 
everything  is  determinate.  But  as  we  do 


70  The  Night  Cometh 

not  seize  the  concomitance  of  phenomena, 
when  two  series  cross  each  other,  we  call  their 
meeting  an  accident.  We  utter  the  word 
mystery.  There  is  no  more  mystery  in  chance 
than  there  is  in  death.  We  are  in  ignorance, 
that  is  all.  However,  let  us  leave  that  ques- 
tion. My  reason,  friend,  for  confiding  in  you 
in  this  way  is  that  I  want  to  ask  you  to  do  me 
a  service.  My  money  affairs  are  not  what 
they  might  be.  I  have  earned  a  great  deal, 
but  I  have  also  been  lavish  in  my  expenditure. 
I  have  loved  life  passionately,  Marsal.  I 
wanted  to  proceed  as  regards  enjoyment  as 
far  as  I  have  gone  in  Science — realize  in  my- 
self the  type  of  the  complete  man — be  a  king 
of  my  day,  in  every  way.  I  have  never 
counted  the  cost.  I  was  conscious  of  my 
strength  and  sure  of  the  morrow.  It  is  slip- 
ping through  my  fingers.  There  will  be  no 
more  £2000  operations.  If  I  succeed  in 
working  a  little  in  this  hospital,  that  will 
be  all;  and  how  many  weeks  will  that 
last? 

"I  fiave  made  a  few  big  investments  which 


A  Man  Doomed  71 

run  the  risk  of  being  endangered  in  this  up- 
heaval. The  most  solid  part  of  my  fortune  is 
this  house  in  the  Rue  Saint  Guillaume,  which, 
fortunately,  I  finished  paying  for  last  winter, 
and  this  Clinique — my  Clinique.  What  will 
become  of  it  when  I  am  gone?  Marsal,  when 
I  am  no  longer  here,  you  must  defend  it,  for 
the  sake  of  my  wife.  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
of  leaving  Catherine  in  a  less  easy  position. 
This  place,  if  well  managed,  will,  once 
this  crisis  is  over,  in  itself  represent  am- 
ple independence  for  her.  The  revenue, 
added  to  my  insurance,  will  enable  her  to 
continue  at  the  Place  des  Etats-Unis.  She 
will  not  be  obliged  to  curtail  her  manner 
of  living. 

"To  accomplish  these  ends  I  need  some- 
one who  will  take  an  interest  in  this  Clinique, 
who  will  make  it  his  business,  who  is  competent 
to  do  so  and  is  an  honest  man.  Will  you  be 
that  someone?  Don't  reply  immediately. 
This  is  a  matter  of  business — I  insist  on  it — 
in  which,  of  course,  your  personal  interests 
will  be  taken  care  of.  If  you  accept,  I  shall 


72  The  Night  Cometh 

have  to  initiate  you  into  the  accounts,  which 
will  show  you  the  expenses  and  the  profits. 
We  will  draw  up  a  deed  of  partnership.  The 
essential  point  is  t&at  you  have  no  objection 
in  the  main.  Have  you  any?" 

"None,  mon  cher  matire.  I  can  only  thank 
you  for  a  proof  of  friendship  which,  coming 
after  so  many  others " 

He  interrupted  me. 

"We  will  return  to  this  project  to-morrow. 
I'm  going  to  give  a  look  round  upstairs.  Per- 
haps you  will  see  Mme.  Ortegue  before  I  do. 
Remember  your  promise.  Do  not  utter  the 
word " 

"But,"  said  I,  stopping  him  in  my  turn, 
and  as  he  was  moving  towards  the  door, 
"are  you  absolutely  sure  of  this  diagnosis? 
You  know  better  than  I  do." 

"Absolutely  sure,"  he  replied.  "You  will 
remember  that  I  was  summoned  to  Germany 
six  weeks  ago  to  see  one  of  my  patients.  I 
took  the  opportunity  to  go  on  to  Berlin. 
Under  an  assumed  name,  I  went  to  consult  one 
of  the  specialists  there.  He  did  not  hesitate 


A  Man  Doomed  73 

to  pronounce  the  word,  and  to  advise  me, 
naturally,  to  undergo  Keir's  operation,  V opera- 
tion en  baionnette — en  paionnette"  he  corrected, 
imitating  the  Teutonic  pronunciation. 

"And  then?"  I  asked. 

"Then  I  decided  against  it,"  he  replied. 
"A  radical  cure  is  impossible.  That  opera- 
tion would  give  me,  perhaps,  four  or  five  more 
months  of  life,  unless  I  died  under  the  knife. 
I  don't  want  to  run  the  risk  of  dying  imme- 
diately. I  love  my  wife  too  much  to  risk 
losing  voluntarily  a  single  one  of  the  hours 
which  are  counted  for  me.  I  have  at  least 
the  certainty  of  spending  them  with  her. 
No,  no,  no,"  he  repeated,  "I  shall  not  run 
that  risk  of  going  sooner.  I  shall  not  play 
that  card.  Besides,  an  operation  would  ren- 
der me  helpless.  I  should  be  incapable  of 
performing  here  the  last  few  services  which  I 
shall  have  the  opportunity  to  do  through  this 
abominable  war.  I  want  to  perform  them. 
I  want  to  be  useful  to  the  end.  We  must 
prove  to  the  Le  Gallics  and  other  mytholo- 
gists  that  we  have  no  need  either  of  their  God, 


74  The  Night  Cometh 

or  of  their  Christ,  or  of  their  future  life  to 
enable  us  to  perform  a  work  of  altruism,  with- 
out expectations.  No,  I  shall  not  be  operated 
upon,  but  I  shall  operate,  as  long  as  this  hand 
has  the  strength  to  hold  the  knife.  .  .  .  Only 
.  .  ."  Again  he  bent  himself  double,  with 
his  fists  against  his  chest.  "Only  sometimes 
I  suffer  too  much.  If  these  paroxysms  lasted 
more  than  five  minutes,  they  would  kill  me. 
.  .  .  But  wait.  .  .  ." 

I  saw  him  walk  towards  a  little  cabinet  in 
which  he  opened  a  drawer.  He  took  from  it 
a  hypodermic  syringe,  lit  an  alcohol  lamp, 
and  passed  the  needle  through  the  flame.  He 
had  recovered  his  professional  slowness  and 
method.  He  filled  the  syringe  from  an  am- 
poule of  morphine,  bared  his  arm,  thrust  in 
the  needle,  and  pressed  on  the  piston,  every 
bit  as  quietly  as  though  he  had  been  giving 
that  injection  to  another.  Then,  replacing 
the  instruments  of  that  beneficent  yet  fatal 
intoxication,  he  closed  the  drawer  and  said 
to  me: 

"I've  already  gone  up  to  ten  centigrammes. 


A  Man  Doomed  75 

Its  effects  weaken,  like  the  rest,  unfortunately. 
Keep  my  wife  in  ignorance  of  that  also,  won't 
you?     Do  you  promise?" 
"I  promise. " 


BENEFICENT   DECEPTION 

THAT  virtue  of  beneficent  lying  is  the 
ABC  of  the  medical  profession.  Whilst 
quite  young  students,  from  the  time  of  our 
first  visits  to  the  hospital,  we  trained  ourselves 
for  it.  With  the  patients  themselves  it  is 
easy  to  practice.  Their  instinct  of  preserva- 
tion conspires  with  us  to  deceive  them.  In 
the  case  of  those  who  surround  and  love  them, 
the  task  becomes  more  difficult,  especially 
when  it  is  a  question  of  putting  an  anxious 
woman  off  the  track  Mothers,  wives,  daugh- 
ters, and  sisters  possess  a  divinatory  sense 
which  enables  them  to  discern  a  reticence  in 
our  most  naturally  uttered  discourse,  and,  in 
the  background  of  our  most  open  look,  a  peep- 
hole. Then  they  question  no  more  directly; 

they   observe   and   spy.     Between   you   and 

76 


Beneficent  Deception  77 

their  watchfulness  there  is  a  duel.  There  is 
not  one  of  your  gestures,  not  one  of  your  in- 
tonations, not  a  wrinkle  of  your  face  they 
will  not  study,  and  which  their  anxiety  will  not 
interpret  precisely  in  the  sense  from  which 
you  wish  to  divert  them. 

I  expected  this  duel  It  commenced  the 
very  minute  I  saw  Mme.  Ortegue  again,  half 
an  hour  after  leaving  the  Professor.  I  had 
said  to  myself:  "The  cleverest  thing  will  be 
not  to  pretend  to  be  easy-minded."  Conse- 
quently, in  answer  to  her  first  question:  "Have 
you  spoken  to  my  husband  ?"  I  thought 
myself  very  skilful  in  replying: 

"I  have  spoken  to  him.  I  have  questioned 
him.  He  did  not  defend  himself.  He  al- 
lowed me  even  to  auscultate  him.  I  support 
what  I  said  before:  overwork,  certainly  dis- 
quieting, especially  considering  his  age.  Only, 
there  is  no  lesion,  at  least  appreciable." 

"But  what  do  you  say  about  that  icterus, 
a  few  months  ago,  and  this  relapse?" 

"A  commonplace  jaundice,  to  which  I 
attach  no  importance." 


78  The  Night  Cometh 

"No  importance?"  she  retorted.  I  saw 
from  this  remark  that  she  knew  more  than 
she  would  admit.  She  was  laying  a  trap  for 
me.  "Then  why  does  Dieulafoy  write  in  his 
Pathologic  that  the  prognostic  of  an  icterus 
must  always  be  reserved?  Why  does  he  add: 
Every  icterus  accompanied  by  fever,  or  which 
declares  itself  in  the  midst  of  symptoms  of 
weakness,  must  be  regarded  with  suspicion? 
...  I  know  those  lines  by  heart,  so  many 
times  have  I  read  and  re-read  that  chapter. 
I  took  the  book  from  my  husband's  library, 
that  and  others  too,  and  since  then  ..." 

"Madam,'"  I  interrupted  in  the  tone  of  one 
scolding  a  child,  but  I  trembled  at  the  thought 
of  the  phrases  found  in  that  manual,  in  which 
a  slight  icterus  is  indicated  as  a  sign  of  cancer 
of  the  pancreas.  "Madam,  you  are  the 
daughter  of  a  doctor,  and  the  wife  of  a  doctor. 
How  many  times  have  you  heard  your  father 
and  your  husband  repeat  in  your  presence 
that  one  of  the  scourges  of  our  profession  is 
the  reading  of  a  medical  book  by  an  ignorant 
person?  Permit  me  to  tell  you  that  in  matters 


Beneficent  Deception  79 

so  special  you  are  only  an  unlearned  person. 
I  repeat  to  you  that  a  jaundice  of  this  nature 
—transient  and  fugitive  as  this  one  was — is 
without  signification,  and  I  beg  of  you,  even 
for  the  sake  of  your  husband's  tranquillity, 
never  again  to  open  that  manual,  or  any 
other.  If  I  thought  that  the  Professor  was 
in  danger,  I  should  be  the  first  to  require  him 
to  take  care  of  himself/' 

She  did  not  reply.  I  had  lied  badly.  I 
fully  realized  it.  I  sought  neither  to  prolong 
nor  to  renew  this  far  too  dangerous  talk  with 
a  woman  who  had  grown  up  in  an  atmosphere 
of  medical  conversations,  and  who  was  cer- 
tainly capable  of  seeing  through  our  ordinary 
craft.  She  herself,  on  that  and  following  days, 
affected,  when  speaking  to  me,  to  avoid  the 
slightest  allusion  to  the  anxiety  which  con- 
tinued to  prey  upon  her;  I  guessed  it  from 
the  automatism  of  her  movements  whilst  she 
applied  herself  to  the  cares  of  our  installa- 
tion. This  characteristic  of  a  somnambulist, 
proper  to  those  who  are  suffering  from  an  ob- 
session, was  discernible  all  the  more  clearly 


8o  The  Night  Cometh 

as  a  keen  alertness  of  her  whole  being  awoke 
the  moment  she  entered  any  room  occupied 
by  her  husband. 

But  was  there  only  one  cause  for  the  inward 
trouble  by  which  I  felt  she  was  so  violently 
agitated  under  her  calm  exterior?  Without 
returning  to  my  first  suspicions,  kindled  at 
the  time  of  Le  Gallic's  visit,  I  could  not  help 
observing  that  her  agitation  increased  on 
certain  days,  and  precisely  when  one  of  those 
post-cards,  which  Ortegue  himself  had  asked 
the  officer  to  send,  arrived.  Coming  from  the 
front,  this  "military  correspondence"  bore 
no  indication  of  the  place  of  origin.  It  was 
indeed  the  simple  agreed-upon  bulletin  of 
daily  existence. 

That  Mme.  Ortegue  did  not  receive  without 
emotion  this  square  piece  of  paper,  scribbled 
over  by  a  hand  that,  at  the  time  the  letter 
reached  its  destination,  was  perhaps  chilled 
by  death,  was  only  natural;  it  was  only  natural 
too,  that  the  danger  to  which  was  exposed  her 
near  relative,  the  companion  of  her  childhood 
and  youth,  should  agitate  still  more  her 


Beneficent  Deception  81 

already  strained  nerves.  I  understood  the 
situation  so  well:  there  was  nothing  romantic 
in  her  quite  simple  and  wholly  human  emotion. 
How,  moreover,  could  this  woman's  heart,  in 
the  grip  of  so  cruel  and  real  a  drama,  have  lent 
itself,  even  for  a  minute,  to  imaginary  emotions? 

And  I,  also,  was  gripped  in  that  steel  vice, 
which  daily  became  tighter  and  tighter. 
How  could  I  have  found  the  time  to  dream 
about  sentimental  complications,  when  I  was 
tortured  hour  after  hour  by  the  most  stern 
realities?  Those  weeks  of  the  month  of  August 
come  back  to  me,  and  again  I  experience  their 
terrors.  First  of  all,  in  addition  to  the  mate- 
rial tasks  of  the  hospital  there  were  long  tete- 
a-tetes  with  Ortegue,  with  the  purpose  of 
initiating  me  into  the  future  management  of 
the  Clinique.  I  had,  of  course,  definitely 
accepted  his  proposal.  So  it  was  necessary 
to  apply  my  mind  to  an  order  of  ideas  and 
a  number  of  documents  which  were  new  to  me. 

Each  of  these  meetings  renewed  my  sense 
of  the  pathological  tragedy  in  which  Fate  had 
entangled  me.  I  came  to  understand  in  more 


82  The  Night  Cometh 

exact  detail  the  tremendous  labour  in  which 
Ortegue  had  exhausted  himself,  and  also  from 
what  wealth  his  approaching  death  was  going 
to  snatch  him.  Above  all,  each  time  I  saw 
him — he  was  no  longer  under  the  restraint 
of  hiding  his  sufferings  from  me — I  noted 
the  ravages  accomplished,  almost  minute  by 
minute,  by  the  disease  which  was  consuming 
him,  and  by  the  drug  which  he  was  employing 
to  relieve  the  intolerable  pain.  He  himself 
compared  the  itching  from  which  he  suffered 
to  a  living  hair-cloth  which,  at  certain  times, 
almost  drove  him  mad.  I  saw  the  jaundice 
return  to  the  palms  of  his  hands  and  his  con- 
junctiva, spread  to  his  face,  grow  darker  in 
places.  The  Spanish  character  of  his  face 
became  more  marked  through  its  becoming 
this  blackish  green,  which  imparted  to  him 
a  sort  of  beauty,  though  terrifying  and  sinister, 
and  this  change  of  aspect  was  taking  place 
under  the  more  and  more  perspicacious  eyes 
of  the  young  wife. 

Running  parallel  to  this  was  the  ever-grow- 
ing anxiety  about  the  war,  that  succeeded  the 


Beneficent  Deception  83 

fond  hopes  based  on  the  early  successes  in 
Alsace;  the  French  troops  driven  back  to 
Nancy — the  Belgian  army  brought  to  a  stand 
at  Antwerp,  the  bombardment  of  Namur, 
the  battle  of  Charleroi,  the  taking  of  Liege, 
Donon  and  the  Col  de  Saales  abandoned,  the 
enemy  at  Peronne,  Longwy,  and  Maubeuge 
captured,  then  the  retreat,  the  Germans  at 
Compiegne  and  Senlis,  the  departure  of  the 
Government  for  Bordeaux,  Paris  threatened, 
followed  by  Joffre's  order  of  the  day,  the  terms 
of  which  showed  the  seriousness  of  the  danger: 
"Cost  what  it  may,  hold  your  ground  and  die 
there  rather  than  relinquish  it," — and  then  the 
waiting  and  the  great  hope  in  which  we  hardly 
dared  to  believe,  and  following  on  that  the 
battles  of  the  Ourcq,  Grand  Morin,  and  Mont- 
mirail,  the  repulse  of  the  enemy,  Luneville, 
Saint  Die,  Raon,  Pont-a-Mousson  relieved, 
and  finally  the  victory  of  the  Marne.  How 
full  of  joy  my  soul  would  have  been,  even  in 
the  presence  of  the  dying  Ortegue,  if  those 
days  of  deliverance  had  not  coincided  with 
the  arrival  of  our  first  patients! 


84  The  Night  Cometh 

It  was  on  September  8th,  a  Tuesday,  that 
the  military  authorities  sent  them  to  us.  They 
were  all  wounded  in  the  head  or  the  vertebral 
column.  Considering  Ortegue's  specialty,  a 
better  choice  could  not  have  been  made  by 
the  Val-de- Grace  Hospital.  We  were  in- 
formed of  their  arrival  by  the  bell  reserved,  for 
that  purpose.  Long  shall  I  remember  that 
first  summons,  those  three  long  and  penetrat- 
ing rings  which  made  Ortegue  and  myself 
start  to  our  feet,  although  the  telephone  had 
already  given  us  notice.  In  an  instant,  the 
whole  staff  of  the  hospital,  the  nurses,  male 
and  female,  and  Mme.  Ortegue  with  them 
were  down  below. 

Three  motor  ambulances  were  standing 
opposite  the  door — three  long,  grey  vehicles, 
each  marked  with  a  red  cross  and  covered 
with  a  tilt.  We  have  since  seen  many  similar 
vehicles  stop  in  this  narrow  Rue  Saint  Guil- 
laume,  filled  with  their  sorrowful  loads;  but 
I  always  experience  an  inward  tremor  when 
I  recollect  that  first  arrival  of  wounded. 

We  were  still  so  near  the   beginning  of 


Beneficent  Deception  85 

August:  those  enthusiastic  days  when  the 
whole  youth  and  strength  of  France  set  off 
with  laughter  and  anger  on  its  lips.  We  had 
all  seen  the  great  Eastern  and  Northern  Rail- 
way stations  send  forth  towards  the  frontier 
— volcano-like — a  human  lava,  the  most 
ardent  and  the  best  of  our  blood.  We  had 
seen  the  flower-bedecked  trains  set  off,  heard 
the  songs  which,  from  the  south  to  the  north, 
floated  over  the  countrysides  with  the  smoke 
from  the  locomotives.  My  own  perception 
of  these  things  had  been  all  the  more  keen 
because,  in  the  intervals  of  our  occupations 
at  the  Clinique,  I  was  able  to  turn  over  and 
over  in  my  mind,  hastily,  the  smarting  regret 
at  being  left  behind.  I  had  also  seen  women's 
eyes  wide  open  with  terror,  eyes  which,  more 
penetrating  that  those  of  the  men,  saw  into 
the  unknown  future. 

There  had  been  no  change  in  the  season. 
The  summer  sun  still  shone  from  a  clear  sky, 
and  the  vision  of  hallucinated  eyes  had  become 
a  reality — bloody,  immediate,  and  implacable. 
In  front  of  me  two  hospital  attendants  slowly 


86  The  Night  Cometh 

drew  from  one  of  the  ambulances  a  stretcher, 
on  which  lay  a  rigid  form  in  a  blue  capote  and 
red  trousers,  the  head  swathed  in  bandages, 
which  left  visible  only  the  lower  part  of  an 
earth-coloured  face,  with  bluish,  parched  lips 
stretched  over  the  teeth.  Another  stretcher 
followed,  and  then  another — nine  in  all — 
which  our  men  deposited  in  the  vestibule 
downstairs.  Ortegue  and  I,  assisted  by  our 
student,  made  a  preliminary  examination,  to 
ascertain  whether  an  operation  was  urgent. 

The  wounded  astonished  us  by  their  silence. 
It  seemed  as  though  they  had  suffered  so  much 
whilst  travelling  from  Charleroi  in  cattle- 
trucks,  with  stoppages  at  small  ambulances 
where  no  one  had  dared  to  touch  such  wounds, 
that  they  wished  never  to  speak  a  word  again ! 
An  odour  of  sweat  and  blood  rose  from  their 
ragged  and  straw-covered  clothing.  They 
still  wore  their  heavy  boots  covered  with  the 
mud  of  battlefields.  We  noted  with  horror 
that  two  of  them  were  blind;  a  third  was 
absolutely  incapable  of  uttering  a  word,  hav- 
ing been  struck  by  aphasia  as  the  result  of  his 


Beneficent  Deception  87 

wound.  The  others  could  see  and  speak,  al- 
though one  was  paralysed  in  the  arm,  another 
in  the  leg.  There  was  one  of  them  who, 
plunged  into  a  semi-comatose  state,  uttered 
every  now  and  then  that  meningeal  cry,  the 
harshness  of  which,  once  heard,  is  never 
forgotten. 

"A  complete  set  of  samples  of  the  goodness 
of  God  in  which  my  little  cousin  Le  Gallic 
believes,"  said  Ortegue,  and,  pointing  to  the 
most  serious  case,  the  one  with  meningitis: 
"If  there  is  anything  to  be  done  at  once,  it's 
for  that  man  there.  Carry  him  upstairs." 


XI 

AGENTS  OF  DESTRUCTION 

1HAD  often  seen  Ortegue  operate.  I  had 
participated,  as  his  pupil,  in  those  surgical 
feats  which  he  willingly  performed  in  the 
presence  of  his  astonished  rivals.  "They  are 
not  operations,"  said  Poncet,  the  great  surgeon 
of  Lyons,  one  day,  "they  are  bets."  And 
Poncet  added,  with  his  frank  and  indulgent 
smile:  "But  since  he  wins  them  all!  .  .  ." 
The  secret  of  this  almost  thaumaturgic  superi- 
ority resided  in  his  extraordinary  knowledge 
of  anatomy,  added  to  a  no  less  extraordinary 
clearness  of  observation  and  manual  dexter- 
ity. Never  had  our  surgical  intimacy  re- 
vealed to  me  a  more  brilliant  Ortegue,  a  more 
audacious  and  more  successful  virtuoso  of  the 
knife,  than  he  now  showed  himself  operating 
upon  these  first  patients  and  those  that  fol- 

88 


Agents  of  Destruction  89 

lowed  them  very  quickly,  and  in  too  great 
numbers. 

A  week  after  the  arrival  of  this  first  batch, 
our  forty  beds  were  filled.  The  more  numer- 
ous the  cases  of  lesions  calling  for  the  appli- 
cation of  his  technical  knowledge,  the  busier 
became  the  surgeon  in  the  "  Director.'*  The 
scientific  fervour  of  youth  was  born  again 
in  this  man  who  himself  was  condemned  to 
death. 

To  me,  who  knew  the  truth,  there  was  no 
need  of  explaining  this  renewal  of  professional 
ardour,  in  his  state  of  incipient  cachexy.  The 
morphia  was  beginning  its  work,  as  destructive 
as  the  cancer  itself.  His  condition  pointed 
to  the  first  stage  of  intoxication. 

The  most  distressing  fact  was  to  see  a  les- 
sening of  Mme.  Ortegue's  anxiety.  She  was 
unaware  of  the  terrible  habit  which  her  unfor- 
tunate husband  was  contracting.  She  beheld 
him  growing  more  and  more  enthusiastic,  as 
in  former  days,  regarding  interesting  cases, 
which  he  talked  about  and  discussed.  She 
must  have  concluded  that  a  cure  was  possible, 


90  The  Night  Cometh 

if  his  breakdown  was  due  only  to  neurasthenia, 
and  all  the  more  since  all  Ortegue's  faculties 
— his  altruism,  for  instance — were  over-excited 
at  one  and  the  same  time. 

He  had  ever  been  prodigal  in  his  devotion 
to  the  unfortunate.  When  he  asked  a  Moreau- 
Janville  £2000  for  an  operation,  he  used  to 
say:  "Let  the  rich  pay  for  the  poor ! "  And  in 
his  case  this  phrase  was  strictly  true.  His 
free  consultations  and  operations  were  in- 
numerable. He  was,  therefore,  logical  when, 
during  those  closing  days  of  August  and  those 
first  days  of  September,  he  said  to  us : 

"I  do  not  know  what  would  have  become 
of  me,  if  I  had  not  been  able  to  make  myself 
useful  during  this  war.  We  civilians  shall 
never  be  able  to  repay  our  debt  to  the  soldiers. 
These  men  are  dying  for  us,  that  is  what  we 
should  ceaselessly  repeat, — for  you,  Catherine, 
for  you,  Marsal,  and  for  myself,  Ortegue. 
Yesterday,  this  man,  from  behind  whose  ear 
I  extracted  a  bullet,  and  who  will  live,  thanked 
me  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  '  But  it  is  I  who 
owe  you  thanks,  my  fine  fellow,  *  I  replied  to 


Agents  of  Destruction  91 

him.  I  did  not  add  that  he'd  been  lucky  to 
be  sent  here.  The  stupidities  I  read  in  the 
medical  journals  regarding  surgery  of  the 
nervous  system  are  frightful.  When  this  war 
is  over,  you  will  see,  Marsal,  what  a  book  we 
shall  write!" 

He  was  speaking  in  good  faith,  after  his 
own  diagnosis!  What  a  mystery  these  illu- 
sions to  which  our  mind  does  not  really  adhere 
are,  and  for  the  space  of  a  minute  we  speak 
as  though  we  believed  in  them!  Moreover, 
these  affirmations,  so  strange  in  the  mouth  of 
a  scientific  man  of  this  calibre,  and  of  a  sick 
man  in  this  condition  of  decline,  were  doubt- 
less but  another  result  of  morphinism.  A 
fortnight  had  not  elapsed  before  the  period  of 
exaltation  was  succeeded  by  one  of  degenera- 
tion. Either  because  Ortegue  increased  the 
dose,  or  because  the  intoxication  produced 
by  the  disease  was  added  to  that  of  the  drug, 
I  observed  with  terror  the  signs  of  a  painful 
change  in  his  moral  personality. 

I  surprised  him — he  who  had  always  shown 
such  strictness  in  the  case  of  the  slightest  de- 


92  The  Night  Cometh 

viations  from  truth — in  lying,  and  'evidently 
pathological  lying.  He  said,  for  instance, 
that  he  had  walked  in  the  garden,  whereas  he 
had  remained  in  his  office,  and  vice  versa.  He 
pretended  that  he  had  read  a  newspaper  which 
he  had  not  read.  To  this  insignificant  mytho- 
mania  was  already  added  a  veritable  paralysis 
of  the  will,  a  more  disquieting  sign  of  morphia- 
poisoning.  He  would  now,  in  the  morning, 
put  on  his  blouse  and  apron,  and,  stretching 
himself  on  the  sofa,  say  to  me: 

"Marsal,  go  the  rounds.  You  can  report 
to  me.  .  .  ." 

And  he  did  not  even  make  an  excuse  for 
his  fatigue!  Ceaselessly,  he,  who  had  been 
so  active  the  first  ten  or  twelve  days,  would 
utter,  when  confronted  with  cases  requiring 
immediate  attention,  the  dilatory  phrase  of 
the  lazy  surgeon :  "We  will  operate  to-rnorrow. 
I  wag  not  alone  in  noting  these  symptoms  of 
degeneration. 

After  the  short  period  of  relief  which  I  have 
mentioned,  there  again  appeared  in  Mrne. 
Ortegue's  eyes  her  former  anxiety,  augmented 


Agents  of  Destruction  93 

by  a  look  of  astonishment.  She  no  longer 
recognized  the  man  of  superior  intellect  whom, 
while  admiring,  she  had  loved.  Nor  did  I, 
either,  recognize  him.  Knowing  the  double 
influence  which  was  hourly  exhausting  the 
formerly  inexhaustible  source  of  his  abundant 
energy,  I  foresaw  some  catastrophe  or  other, 
without  being  able  to  divine  exactly  the  unex- 
pected form  it  was  to  assume,  and  the  incident 
of  a  wholly  professional  order  which  was  to 
mark,  as  it  were,  the  second  act  of  this  tragedy. 


XII 


THE   SURGEON  S  COLLAPSE 

HP  HIS  incident  occurred,  to  be  exact,  on 
1  Monday,  September  28th.  There  is  a 
special  reason  for  my  recollecting  the  date. 
On  the  previous  day  a  German  aeroplane 
had  dropped  four  bombs  on  Paris  and  injured 
a  little  girl  of  thirteen. 

"How  stupid  chance  is  all  the  same!"  said 
Ortegue  that  Monday  morning,  when  point- 
ing out  to  me  in  the  newspaper  the  account 
of  the  outrage.  "Why  was  I  not  in  the 
Avenue  du  Trocadero,  in  the  place  of  this 
child?  " 

"And  who  would  have  operated  upon 
Dufour?"  I  replied. 

This  Dufour,  was  an  artillery  captain  who 
had  been  brought  to  us  the  preceding  week 
with  a  terrible  bullet  wound  in  the  region  of 

94, 


The  Surgeon's  Collapse  95 

his  spinal  cord.  He  could  no  longer  walk. 
After  a  careful  examination,  Ortegue  had 
concluded  that  the  paralysis  was  due  to  pres- 
sure, and  that  on  the  projectile  being  extracted 
the  officer  would  be  cured. 

"You  are  right,  Marsal.  Who  would  have 
operated  upon  him?"  he  repeated.  "No. 
I've  not  forgotten  the  unfortunate  fellow, 
nor  that  we  fixed  upon  this  morning  for  our 
attempt  to  save  him.  The  sooner  the  better. 
We've  put  it  off  too  long.  Now,  with  his  sore, 
it  is  perhaps  a  question  of  hours.  Will  you 
give  orders  to  have  him  carried  into  the 
operating-room?  " 

On  my  return  he  continued:  "On  his  ac- 
count, I've  stopped  taking  morphia  for  the 
past  three  days.  I'm  suffering  again, — ah! 
cruelly!  But  there  is  something  worse  than 
this  suffering,  there's  the  trouble  here/' — 
pointing  to  his  head, — "that  thought  which 
abandons  you,  that  barrier  between  action 
and  yourself,  that  interior  immobilization  .  .  . 
I  was  frightened,  when  confronted  with  the 
necessity  of  operating  on  Dufour,  at  being  no 


96  The  Night  Cometh 

longer  myself,  and  not  to  have  acted  in  such 
a  case  would  have  been  equivalent,  for  an 
Ortegue,  to  desertion  ...  So  I  vowed  to 
myself  that  I  would  take  no  more  injections, 
and  broke  them  off  at  once.  As  you  know, 
I'm  not  the  man  for  half -measures  ...  I 
realized  that  I  should  never  succeed  by  dimin- 
ishing the  dose  .  .  .  Only,  I've  the  classic 
symptoms  due  to  sudden  abstinence, — insom- 
nia, tingling,  cold,  and  extraordinary  hyper- 
sesthesia.  But  anything,  anything  rather  than 
that  oppressive  weight,  that  leaden  cloak  on 
the  will  .  .  .  Marsal,  I  want  Dufour  to  walk, 
and  walk  he  shall  .  .  .  Come,  he  must  have 
been  made  ready  by  now.  .  .  ." 

A  few  minutes  later  we  entered  the  operat- 
ing-room; he,  exceedingly  nervous  and  at  high 
tension:  I,  filled  with  a  great  desire  to  see 
ended  and  successful  the  daring  operation  he 
was  about  to  perform  on  the  heroic  and  unfor- 
tunate Dufour.  I  noted  with  anxiety  that 
Ortegue's  excitement  increased  the  nearer 
the  moment  for  action  approached.  Formerly, 
it  had  been  the  contrary.  The  mere  act  of 


The  Surgeon's  Collapse  97 

putting  on  his  apron  and  india-rubber  gloves 
had  calmed  him.  But  that  morning  he  talked 
and  talked,  all  along  the  corridors,  with  such 
a  morbid  volubility!  I  distinctly  remember 
two  of  his  remarks,  one  of  which  he  made  to 
me  almost  on  the  threshold  of  the  operating- 
room,  as  he  pointed  out  the  figure  of  the  chap- 
lain descending  the  steps  into  the  garden: 

"The  Abbe  Courmont  has  just  distributed 
his  morphia,  and  perhaps  to  poor  Dufour. 
It  is  even  more  stupefying  than  the  other. " 

The  second  remark  was  made  in  the  operat- 
ing-room itself,  before  an  audience  composed 
of  the  group  of  nurses,  male  and  female,  who, 
surrounding  the  wounded  man,  had  just 
finished  sending  him  to  sleep  on  the  table— 

"You  are  going  to  behold  a  miracle,"  said 
Ortegue  to  them,  "but  a  true  one, — a  scientific 
miracle.  This  paralytic  will  walk.  I  shall 
open  his  vertebral  canal  and  extract  the  bullet. 
Ah!  it  is  a  magnificent  operation.  Young 
men  and  women,  you're  in  luck's  way.  In 
the  course  of  two  months  you  will  have 
witnessed  three  laminectomies.  Ask  Marsal. 


98  The  Night  Cometh 

He  did  not  see  more  during  the  whole  of  his 
hospital  studies." 

The  sort  of  intense  glee  with  which  he  an- 
nounced one  of  the  most  bloody  surgical  inter- 
ventions that  exists  justified  the  insulting 
epigram  of  the  humorist  who  made  out  that  we 
become  surgeons  to  satisfy  with  impunity  the 
instincts  of  the  executioner.  How  little  this 
ill-placed  delight  resembled  the  sudden  fixity 
with  which  he  watched  me  paint  with  iodine 
the  back  of  the  wounded  man,  who  lay  on 
his  stomach!  I  also  noticed  that  his  fingers, 
usually  so  steady,  trembled  a  little,  whilst, 
armed  with  a  three-legged  compass  and  guided 
by  a  radiographic  plate  on  which  the  bullet 
could  be  distinguished,  he  marked  three  refer- 
ence points  on  the  now  quite  yellow  skin, 
— but  not  more  yellow  than  his  own  face. 
These  preparations  completed,  he  began  to 
proceed  to  denude  the  vertebrae  by  means  of 
a  deep  rectangular  incision,  as  far  as  the  bone. 

Was  my  own  nervousness  at  fault?  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  stroke  of  his  knife 
lacked  its  customary  decision.  But  no  time 


The  Surgeon's  Collapse  99 

was  given  me  to  reflect  on  that  point.  The 
denudation  was  accompanied,  as  usual,  by  a 
considerable  flow  of  blood,  which  threatened 
to  obscure  the  field  of  the  operation.  I  had 
seized  the  two  instruments  used  for  holding 
the  lips  of  the  wound  apart.  I  used  one  my- 
self and  held  out  the  other  to  Ortegue.  But 
to  my  stupefaction  I  saw  him  pay  no  heed  to 
my  gesture.  He  continued  to  work  amidst 
the  flow  of  blood,  but  with  a  hesitating,  un- 
certain hand.  Suddenly,  he  let  go  of  the 
handle  of  his  knife,  and  an  instant  later  I  saw 
him  break  down,  with  wild  eyes  and  distorted 
features.  We  had  only  just  time  to  move 
up  a  stool,  on  which  he  sank,  stammering 
hoarsely : 

"I  cannot  see  it!  ...  I  can  do  no  more!" 

Professional  honour  alone  surviving  amongst 

his  momentarily  overclouded  faculties,  he  had 

still  the  strength,  in  the  midst  of  this  dreadful 

collapsuSj  to  push  me  away  and  say,  pointing 

to  the  table  on  which  the  bleeding  patient  lay: 

"Marsal!    Attend    to    him.     Extract    the 

bullet. 


XIII 

THE  PROOF  OF  MADAME  ORTEGUE's  DEVOTION 

T^HERE  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  about 
1  my  duty:  the  patient  first.  While  two 
infirmary  attendants,  supporting  the  over- 
come surgeon,  led  him  away,  I  tried  to  stop 
the  hemorrhage.  But  what  was  to  be  done 
after  that?  Ought  I  to  close  the  wound,  when 
I  had  that  redoubtable  phrase  ringing  in  my 
ears:  "It  is  perhaps  a  question  of  hours"? 
Must  I  continue  the  operation,  groping  in  the 
dark,  and  guiding  myself  solely  by  Ortegue's 
diagnosis?  I  decided  on  the  latter  alternative 
as  though  hypnotized  by  that  genius  whose 
eclipse  I  had  just  witnessed.  Above  all  I 
responded  to  the  necessity  of  procuring  for 
him  the  only  relief  he  could  receive,  in  the 
distress  into  which  his  breakdown  had  plunged 
him.  His  first  words,  when  we  saw  each  other 


IOO 


Madame  Ortfegue's  Devotion      101 

again,  would  be  the  question:  "What  about 
Dufour?"  What  a  comfort  if  I  were  able  too 
reply:  "I've  got  the  bullet.  It  was  indeed  a 
simple  pressure  on  the  spinal  cord.  He  is 
saved!" 

Amid  the  tumult  of  these  thoughts,  I  or- 
dered the  assistant  who  was  giving  the  anaes- 
thetic, who  had  also  risen,  to  replace  the  mask 
on  the  mouth  of  the  patient,  whose  moans 
presaged  an  early  awakening,  and,  completing 
the  application  of  the  instruments  for  hold- 
ing the  lips  of  the  wound  apart,  resumed 
the  exploration  in  a  field  where  an  error  of 
but  a  few  millimetres  might  have  proved 
fatal. 

During  the  whole  of  my  medical  career,  I 
cannot  recollect  having  carried  out  a  piece  of 
work  which  seemed  so  long.  Not  one  either, 
made  me  experience  more  keenly,  amid  the 
painful  detail  of  the  breaking  and  opening  of 
bones,  that  sensation  which  one  of  our  masters, 
Jean  Louis  Faure,  has  described  so  eloquently 
on  one  of  the  spendid  pages  of  his  essay  en- 
titled: L'Ame  du  Chirurgien.  He  shows  the 


102  The  Night  Cometh 

operator  experiencing  a  thrill  which  exalts 
him  and  adds  a  new  power  to  his  being. 

While  feeling  my  way  from  fibre  to  fibre, 
amid  that  bleeding  and  living  flesh,  I  once 
more  admired  the  sureness  of  Ortegue's  induc- 
tions and  his  superhuman  insight.  The  pro- 
jectile was  located  exactly  where  he  had  said. 
I  held  it;  I  withdrew  it.  The  pressure  on  the 
spinal  marrow  would  disappear,  and  with  it 
the  paralysis.  The  miracle  would  be  accom- 
plished— the  patient  saved.  Let  me  add, 
parenthetically,  that  the  patient  was  so  in- 
dubitably saved  that  he  departed  from  the 
hospital  the  other  week,  on  convalescent 
leave,  without  ever  having  suspected  amid 
what  events  the  work  of  his  deliverance  had 
been  accomplished. 

Jean  Louis  Faure  has  noted  also  in  com- 
menting on  one  under  an  anaesthetic — that 
such  a  one  is  the  only  person  who  is  indifferent 
to  the  spectacle  which  is  being  enacted  around 
the  operating-table.  Never  have  those  words 
appeared  to  me  truer  than  on  the  occasion 
of  that  episode,  in  the  happy  issue  of  which 


Madame  Ort£gue's  Devotion      103 

I  could  not  believe,  whilst  the  assistants 
carried  the  man  back  to  his  bed,  still  asleep, 
but  restored  to  life. 

I  hardly  took  the  time  to  wash  away  the 
blood  which  covered  my  hands  and  face. 
With  stained  apron  still  around  me,  I  rushed 
in  the  direction  of  Ortegue's  study,  clasping 
between  my  fingers,  as  though  it  were  a 
treasure,  the  projectile  I  wished  to  hand 
him,  before  even  a  word  passed  my  lips. 

"The  Professor  has  recovered/'  said  a 
nurse  whom  I  met  on  the  way.  "He  has 
been  given,  at  his  request,  an  injection  of 
morphia.  He  wished  us  to  leave  him  alone, 
and  is  now  resting  on  the  sofa,  with  Mme. 
Ortegue  by  his  side." 

"So  he  has  relapsed,"  thought  I.  "That 
was  inevitable.  Better  so.  His  breakdown 
during  the  operation,  with  that  troubled  vision 
and  the  giving  way  of  the  legs,  is  the  result  of 
the  sudden  suppression  of  the  morphia.  A 
fatal  syncope  might  have  occurred.  I  must 
look  into  his  condition.  .  .  .  But  if  he  is 
sleeping?  .  .  .  Anyway,  I'll  go  to  the  room 


104  The  Night  Cometh 

adjoining  his  study.  If  he  is  asleep,  then  I 
will  retire.  If  not,  the  news  that  the  operation 
has  succeeded  will  be  the  best  of  medicine " 

So  I  opened  that  first  door  as  quietly  as 
possible,  walking  on  the  tips  of  my  toes.  I 
had  no  sooner  crossed  the  threshold  than  the 
sound  of  voices  came  to  me  from  the  study 
to  which  the  room  mentioned  formed  the 
antechamber.  I  was  about  to  knock  at  the 
second  door  and  announce  my  presence.  But 
a  phrase,  heard  distinctly,  stopped  me  dead, 
so  much  did  it  impress  me,  and  the  following 
is  the  terrible  dialogue  I  heard,  immovable 
as  I  was  and  veritably  prostrated.  Ortegue, 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  distress,  had  not  had 
the  strength  to  keep  his  secret.  He  had  just 
told  his  wife  the  name  of  his  disease,  and  the 
rest.  And  she  was  crying: 

"But  if  you  die,  I  shall  not  survive  the  day. 
You  must  not  die !  .  .  ." 

"  My  poor  child,"  replied  Ortegue,  "you  will 
survive  me,  and  it  is  only  right.  You  are  not 
yet  thirty.  You  have  the  right  to  live.  .  .  ." 

"Not  without  you." 


Madame  Ort£gue's  Devotion      105 

"Don't  speak  that  way  to  me.  Tempt  me 
not  .  .  .  Tempt  me  not!"  he  repeated.  I 
guessed  from  the  noise  of  a  chair  being  moved 
that  he  was  now  walking  about  the  room. 
"Yes.  I  have  had  the  terrible  idea  of  drag- 
ging you  with  me  into  that  darkness,  that 
coldness,  that  void.  Since  I  became  aware 
that  I  am  condemned,  it  is  not  once  but  twenty 
times  that  I  have  risen  at  night  to  listen  to 
you  sleeping.  I  heard  your  calm,  fresh,  and 
regular  breathing.  I  lit  a  candle,  the  light 
of  which  I  screened  with  my  hand,  so  as 
not  to  awaken  you.  I  saw  you  so  young 
and  beautiful!  Ah!  that  word  youth!  I 
imagined  you  in  a  year,  in  two  years,  in  ten, 
fifteen,  still  so  beautiful,  and  I  so  far  away! 
...  I  said  to  myself:  'I  shall  be  but  a  phan- 
tom. She  will  forget  me/  " 

"Never,"  she  moaned,  savagely. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  no  less  savagely.  .  .  . 
"  Everything  is  forgotten.  .  .  .  And  then  came 
despair,  jealousy,  fury.  I  thought:  'Sup- 
pose I  kill  her  in  her  sleep,  without  her  feeling 
it?  ...  I  have  plenty  of  choice  as  to  means. 


io6  The  Night  Cometh 

There  are  so  many  poisons  which  kill  instantly. 
I  have  some  there. '  And  then  I  held  myself 
in  abhorrence.  I  went  down  on  my  knees 
before  your  bed  and  begged  your  pardon. 
You  do  not  know  how  much  I  love  you.  It 
is  not  death  which  frightens  me.  Death  is 
a  mystery  only  to  those  who  do  not  know, 
who  have  not  seen.  Only,  Catherine,  to  enter 
into  it  and  part  from  you!  To  leave  you  to 
others!  .  .  .  But  why  lay  bare  before  you 
all  this  shame  and  cowardice?  ...  I  fill  you 
with  horror.  .  .  ." 

"It  is  you  who  do  not  realize  how  much  I 
love  you,"  she  replied. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  "it  is  impossible  for  you 
to  love  me  any  longer.  No  one  could  love 
the  dead  body  I  have  become.  When  I  look 
at  myself  in  the  glass  and  see  this  sinister  mask, 
these  emaciated  cheeks,  this  greenish  com- 
plexion, I  fully  realize  that  further  love  for 
me  is  impossible.  Impossible!  The  end  has 
come.  .  .  .  Until  this  morning  I  had  a  right 
to  think:  'Intelligent  as  she  is,  and  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  scientist,  she  may  still  find  something 


Madame  Ort£gue's  Devotion      107 

pleasing  in  me — my  talent  and  science;  seeing 
me  at  work  in  this  hospital,  admired  by  all, 
she  may  be  proud  of  me — proud  to  bear  my 
name.  .  .  . '  That  idea  supported  and  exalted 
me.  Because  of  her,  I  have  outdone  myself 
here  during  the  last  few  weeks.  Let  me  bear 
witness  to  that  as  I  should  do  to  a  dead  person. 
That  also  is  ended,  ended!  .  .  .  After  my 
breakdown  this  morning,  I  shall  never  dare 
to  touch  an  instrument  again.  I  should  be 
too  frightened  of  being  an  assassin.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps I  am  one,  unless  Marsal  has  succeeded. 
...  So  you  and  Science  and  my  art — every- 
thing has  gone,  everything.  .  .  .  Think  how 
horrible  a  thing  it  is  when  everything  you  love 
dwindles,  crumbles  away,  and  is  lost — when 
you  see  and  feel  it  slipping  away,  and  when, 
stricken  by  such  a  disease,  you  are  going 
with  it!  .  .  ." 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  crumble  away, 
Michel,"  she  cried,  in  most  touching  accents. 
"You  are  going  to  keep  me.  You  will  not 
lose  me.  I  love  you;  listen,  I  love  you." 

"Do  not  say  those  words."     With  what 


io8  The  Night  Cometh 

feeling,  too,  Ortegue  protested!  "They  hurt 
too  much.  .  .  .  But  since  that  is  impossible! 
.  .  .  You  do  not  love  me.  You  pity  me. 
And  truly  I  am  much  to  be  pitied.  .  .  ." 

"I  love  you,"  she  said,  in  a  supplicating 
voice.  "I  have  placed  all  my  life  in  you.  I 
love  you.  ...  As  to  its  being  impossible  or 
foolish,  I  cannot  say.  I  know  that  it  is  so.  I 
love  you  with  the  same  passionate  tenderness 
as  on  the  day  when  you  asked  me  to  be  your 
wife  and  I  replied  '  Yes.  '  On  that  day  I  gave 
you  my  whole  soul.  You  possess  it.  Do  you 
not  feel  that  you  possess  it?  I  have  never 
taken  anything  back — no,  nothing.  But  tell 
me  that  you  realize  I  love  you,  that  you  feel 
it.  Tell  me.  .  .  ." 

"I  cannot  feel  it,"  he  exclaimed.  "That 
is  no  longer  possible.  ..." 

"Because  you  are  stiff ering — because  you 
are  wretched?  .  .  .  You  have  not,  then,  un- 
derstood why  I  love  you,  why — I  repeat — I 
have  placed  my  whole  life  in  you?  Yes,  the 
whole  of  it.  For  I  cannot  admit  either  that 
one  can  love  twice  or  cease  to  love.  Above 


Madame  Ortfegue's  Devotion      109 

all,  I  cannot  admit  that  one  can  start  one's 
life  again.  That  is  a  thing  for  which  I  have 
never  forgiven  my  mother.  You  were  older 
than  I  was.  I  have  always  realized  that  you 
would  grow  old  before  me,  and  that  also  has 
been  a  reason  for  loving  you  the  more. 

11  My  father  brought  me  up  in  the  adoration 
of  Science.  He  told  me  what  he  thought  of 
you  and  of  your  value  as  a  scientist.  It  is 
the  poetry  of  your  life  which  attracted  me — 
that  life  devoted  to  Truth,  amidst  things  so 
hard — the  noble  and  benevolent  side  of  that 
work  which  appears  so  brutal.  I  said  to 
myself:  'When  he  begins  to  grow  old,  I  will 
look  after  him.  If  need  be,  I  will  be  his  nurse. 
My  being  will  have  fulfilled  the  whole  of  its 
work. ' 

"Other  women  dream  of  becoming  mothers. 
Would  that  I  had  been  a  mother  through  you. 
I  should  have  been  very  happy  because  of  it. 
But  that  was  not  to  be.  I  do  not  regret  it. 
But  if  you  do  not  feel  that,  just  at  the  time 
when  you  most  need  to  feel  it,  what  would 
you  have  me  become?  Where  would  you  have 


no  The  Night  Cometh 

me  seek  strength?  If  I  cannot  help  you  in 
this  last  trial — well,  then,  everything  is  at 
an  end.  But  I  shall  support  and  aid  you.  ..." 
And  again,  savagely,  she  said:  "You  thought 
of  killing  me.  Didn't  you?" 

"I  told  you  so." 

"Tell  me  another  thing.  You  thought 
also  of  killing  yourself?" 

"I  did." 

"Well,  shall  we  die  together?  Would  you 
then  believe  that  I  love  you?  ..." 

There  was  silence. 

"Is  that  indeed  true?"  he  asked. 

"Is  it  true?     Look  at  me." 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  and  I  shuddered, 
noticing  that  his  voice  had  changed,  that  his 
despairing  accent  had  given  place  to  a  tone 
of  ecstasy,  exaltation,  intoxication.  "Yes,  I 
believe  that  you  love  me.  .  .  .  Ah,  thank 
you,  thank  you,  thank  you!  It  is  the  first 
time  for  weeks  that  I  have  rid  myself  of  my 
nightmare,  that  I  breathe  and  feel  a  little 
gentleness.  Yes,  I  feel  now  that  you  love 
me.  And  how  sweet  it  is.  What  a  feeling 


Madame  Ortegue's  Devotion      in 

of  calm  has  come  over  me!  What  a  relief! 
...  To  have  spoken  to  me  thus,  how  you 
must  love  me!" 

"At  last!"  she  moaned.  "Yes,  I  love  you 
— passionately,  absolutely.  Agreed.  I  shall 
need  no  effort  to  leave  a  world  in  which  you 
no  longer  are.  Death  does  not  frighten  me 
either.  I  also  know  it  is  the  eternal  sleep. 
When  shall  we  enter  into  it?  To-day,  so  that 
your  poor  flesh  need  suffer  no  longer?  Now, 
at  this  very  minute,  when  we  are  so  united, 
so  transparent,  the  one  as  for  the  other?  Is 
that  your  desire?  I  am  ready." 

"Not  yet,"  he  replied. 

With  what  anguish,  during  those  terrible 
minutes,  I  awaited  from  him,  from  that  man 
whom  I  was  accustomed  to  respect  so  much, 
a  cry  of  revolt,  a  gesture  of  refusal,  in  the 
presence  of  this  proof  of  a  mad  devotion ! 
But  that  cry  did  not  pass  his  lips.  I  guessed 
that  he  raised  not  his  hands  to  make  that 
gesture.  A  sign,  alas!  that  his  soul  was  as 
sick  as  his  body.  He  accepted  this  monstrous 
plan  of  a  double  suicide,  without  even  discus- 


ii2  The  Night  Cometh 

ing  it,  in  a  state  of  delirium  which  proved  that 
he  also  had  placed  all  his  life  on  this  love,  and 
he  continued : 

"I  am  too  full  of  happiness  now.  I  do  not 
want  to  lose  it.  As  long  as  I  have  eyes  to 
see  you,  hands  to  take  yours,  and  the  power 
of  knowing  you  exist,  I  wish  to  live,  to  lose 
not  an  hour  or  a  second  of  you.  Morphia 
will  save  me  from  too  much  suffering.  I  was 
frightened  of  it,  because  I  noticed  that  it  was 
preventing  me  from  working.  It  will  not 
prevent  me  from  looking  at  you,  from  hearing 
you  breathe  and  feeling  that  you  are  living. 
I  have  still  weeks — perhaps  months — before 
me.  I  do  not  want  to  lose  them." 

"Nor  I,"  she  said.  "But  promise  me  one 
thing.  Swear  to  me  on  our  love  that  the 
resolve  is  only  postponed,  that  you  will  not 
go  without  me,  that  it  is  a  compact  between  us, 
as  on  the  day  when  you  asked  for  my  hand. 
Do  you  remember?  .  .  .  You  are  a  doctor, 
and  will  clearly  recognize  the  symptoms  which 
announce  the  end.  When  they  come,  you 
will  tell  me,  and  also  the  means  for  myself. 


Madame  Ort£gue's  Devotion      113 

I  shall  have  courage.  We  will  pass  together 
into  that  darkness,  that  coldness,  that  void 
of  which  you  speak.  There  might  be  some- 
thing darker,  colder,  and  emptier  than  that: 
our  house  without  you.  Michel, ' '  she  insisted, 
solemnly,  "I  know  that  you  have  never 
broken  your  word.  Do  you  promise  me?" 

"I  promise  you,"  he  replied. 

"Thank  you,"  she  exclaimed.  Then,  in 
a  more  cajoling  tone,  as  if  to  a  patient:  "Try, 
mon  ami,  to  sleep  a  little.  You  need  it.  You 
owe  it  to  me,  now,  to  husband  the  remainder 
of  our  time.  Lie  down.  You  are  going  to 
sleep." 

"Not  before  I  know  the  result  of  the  opera- 
tion," he  said,  with  a  return  of  anxiety  in  his 
voice.  "I  have  been  so  upset  that  I  forgot 
poor  Dufour.  If  only  Marsal  has  saved 
him!  ..." 

"I  will  go  and  see,"  she  replied,  "and  then 
come  back." 


XIV 

THE  FAILURE  OF  AN  ENDEAVOUR 

HP  HERE  was  time  for  me  to  slip  out  and 
pass  into  the  corridor.  There,  I  should 
have  met  Mme.  Ortegue  as  though  by  chance. 
She  would  have  thought  that  I  was  coming 
from  the  operating-room.  My  first  impulse 
was,  indeed,  to  withdraw.  But  I  remained 
where  I  was.  Those  words  "To-day.  .  .  . 
At  this  very  minute  .  .  ."  rang  in  my  ears. 
Supposing  Ortegue,  at  the  end  of  his  strength 
and  in  the  paroxysm  of  a  fresh  attack,  were 
to  return  to  them?  Supposing  the  horrible 
project  was  carried  out  that  evening,  or  to- 
morrow? Should  I  ever  forgive  myself  for  not 
having  immediately  uttered  the  cry  which 
was  on  my  lips  in  the  presence  of  this  crime? 
For  it  was  a  crime — that  example  of  cow- 
ardice in  the  midst  of  pain,  set  before  all  the 

114 


The  Failure  of  an  Endeavour     115 

wounded  in  that  hospital,  at  such  a  time  as 
that. 

Whilst  I  was  hesitating — barely  a  few 
seconds — Mme.  Ortegue  had  opened  the  door 
and  seen  me.  She  started  back  in  surprise; 
then,  placing  a  finger  on  her  lips,  as  a  sign 
for  me  to  be  silent,  she  pointed  with  the  other 
hand  to  the  closed  door,  and,  taking  me  by  the 
arm,  led  me  away. 

"  Were  you  there  long?  "  she  asked,  when  she 
had  led  me  into  her  private  room,  which  was 
near  to  that  occupied  by  the  sick  man — a  fact 
that  still  further  increased  the  tragedy  of  that 
conversation,  because  of  the  possibility  that  he 
might  appear  at  any  moment,  impelled  by  the 
desire  to  know  the  fate  of  poor  Captain  Duf our. 

"Yes,  Madam,"  I  replied,  feeling  that  it 
would  be  useless  to  try  to  lie  to  her.  "I 
came  to  inform  the  Professor  that  I  have 
completed  the  operation,  that  it  has  succeeded, 
and  to  bring  him  this  bullet." 

"Why  then  did  you  not  come  in?"  she 
asked,  imperiously.  "Why  did  you  listen 
to  us,  spy  upon  us?" 


n6  The  Night  Cometh 

" Madam,"  I  interrupted,  "I  cannot  offer 
any  excuse.  I  ought  either  to  have  come  in 
or  withdrawn.  That  is  true.  I  was,  as  it 
were,  nailed  to  the  spot." 

"And  now  you  are  going  to  speak  to  him, 
to  tell  him  that  he  has  no  right  to  drag  me 
to  the  grave;  to  add  still  more  to  his  agony 
and  snatch  from  him  the  last  joy  I  am  able  to 
give  him?  Well,  it  is  contrary  to  my  wishes, 
Marsal.  It  is  contrary  to  my  wishes.  .  .  . 
But  be  quiet!"  She  again  placed  a  finger  on 
her  lips  and  listened.  Someone  was  passing 
along  the  corridor  and  moving  away.  "Give 
me  the  bullet,"  she  said,  "and  I  will  take  it 
to  my  husband.  When  he  knows  that  his 
patient  is  out  of  danger,  he  will  rest.  Not 
before.  .  .  .  And  wait  for  me." 

Five  minutes  later  she  was  back  again.  I 
had  had  time  to  reflect,  and  it  was  I  who 
resumed  the  conversation  by  accosting  her 
with  these  words : 

"Madam,  I  shall  not  speak  to  M.  Ortegue. 
He  is  so  ill.  I  shall  not  inflict  an  additional 
emotion  upon  him.  He  has  suffered  too  much 


The  Failure  of  an  Endeavour     117 

for  months  past,  as  you  now  know.  To  crown 
everything,  there  is  this  operation  which  was 
interrupted  so  painfully.  .  .  .  If  we  were  not 
in  a  war  hospital,  I  should  leave  this  house. 
I  cannot;  he  would  not  let  me  go.  My  pre- 
sence is  all  the  more  necessary  here  for,  in 
the  capacity  of  the  Professor's  pupil,  I  am  the 
one  designated  to  carry  out  his  instructions 
if  he  cease  to  operate,  as  he  says  he  will.  I 
shall  not  therefore  go  away,  nor,  I  repeat, 
shall  I  speak  to  him.  But  the  very  silence 
which  I  promise  to  preserve  towards  my 
teacher,  my  admiration  for  him,  and  my 
respect  for  his  wife,  entitle  me  to  say  this  to 
you.  Madam,  this  double  suicide  is  a  crime. 
Do  not  commit  it,  and  do  not  allow  it  to  be 
committed." 

"What  crime?  Does  my  life  belong  to  me? 
— answer  me,  yes  or  no. " 

"Not  to  you  alone,  Madam.  No  one's  life 
is  his  alone.  But  go  up  to  the  wards — into 
the  room  of  the  wounded  man  on  whom  I 
have  just  operated.  Look  at  him  and  ques- 
tion your  conscience.  So  long  as  there  exists 


n8  The  Night  Cometh 

in  the  world  any  one  who  suffers  and  to  whom 
we  can  do  a  little  good,  to  go  away  is  to  desert ; 
and  in  war-time,  in  this  hour  of  universal 
unhappiness,  there  are  suffering  people  every- 
where. .  .  ." 

"But  if  my  husband  needs  me  more  than 
all  the  others?"  she  interrupted.  "If  I  have 
no  other  means  of  aiding  him  than  by  dying? 
You  speak  of  the  man  on  whom  you  have 
operated.  Suppose  that  he  were  suffering  at 
this  moment  from  a  contagious  and  fatal  ill- 
ness, and  I  came  to  you,  and  said:  'He  needs 
a  nurse  to  look  after  him;  I  will  go/  That 
would  also  be  a  suicide.  Would  you  call  it  a 
crime?  Marsal,  I  am  not  doing  anything  more 
than  that,  and  my  conscience  is  quite  clear. 

"Moreover,  it  is  not  your  conscience  which 
speaks  to  me;  it  is  your  prejudice.  I  have 
noticed  it  for  a  long  time.  You  do  not  dare 
to  think  truly.  I  learnt  first  of  all  from  my 
father  and  then  from  my  husband  how  to 
think  correctly.  Listen.  Would  you  like 
me  to  tell  you  my  husband's  views  regarding 
suicide?  Two  years  ago — he  was  not  ill  then 


The  Failure  of  an  Endeavour     119 

— one  of  our  friends  killed  herself.  I  shall 
not  tell  you  her  name.  The  fact  was  kept 
secret — again  through  prejudice.  Someone 
was  indignant  with  her.  I  can  still  hear  my 
husband  reply:  'The  reasons  against  suicide 
were  invented  by  guzzlers  who  are  fond  of 
life,  and  would  have  everybody  love  it  as  they 
do.  Out  of  the  most  animal  of  instincts  they 
have  fashioned  a  virtue." 

"But  that  very  instinct, "  I  replied,  " proves 
that  suicide  is  contrary  to  nature,  contrary  to 
order,  contrary  to  law." 

"Continue  right  to  the  end,"  she  replied, 
with  singular  irony.  "Say  that  it  is  forbid- 
den by  God,  while  you  are  about  it.  I  am 
going  to  astonish  you.  At  any  rate,  that 
would  have  a  meaning.  But  God!  If  there 
were  a  God,  should  I  be  living  through  this 
atrocious  hour?  Have  I  deserved  it?  ... 
As  to  Good  and  Evil,  what  do  these  words 
mean?  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  savant  and 
the  wife  of  a  savant.  I  am  accustomed  to 
think  for  myself.  I  know  that  there  is  no 
God.  I  know  that  there  is  no  other  world. 


120  The  Night  Cometh 

I  know  that  Good  and  Evil  are  the  result  of 
a  long  atavism  of  adaptations.  For  other 
women,  these  formulae  have  no  meaning. 
They  have  one  for  me.  My  father  and  my 
husband  have  sufficiently  commented  upon 
them.  When  that  adaptation  is  no  longer 
possible,  when  a  human  creature  suffers  too 
much,  in  whose  name  would  you  forbid  him 
or  her  delivering  himself  or  herself  from  that 
suffering?  That  is  my  case,  Marsal.  My 
suffering  is  too  great." 

i 'And  suppose  a  soldier  in  the  trenches,  to- 
day— someone  you  esteem  or  love,  your  cousin 
Le  Gallic,  for  instance,  were  also  to  say,  '  My 
suffering  is  too  great, '  and  kill  himself — what 
would  you  think  of  him?" 

"That  he  was  a  coward,  if  able  to  fight. 
But  supposing  he  were  unable?  .  .  .  Marsal, 
give  me  the  means  of  fighting  against  this 
horrible  ill  which  is  going  to  carry  off  my  hus- 
band— drag  him  from  me.  And  you  shall 
see!  .  .  .  No.  You  know  too  well  that  there 
is  nothing  to  be  done;  that  the  cancer  is  there, 
implacable  and  incurable,  with  its  issue  as 


The  Failure  of  an  Endeavour     121 

certain  as  the  return  of  morning  and  evening. 
You  know  that  my  husband  is  doomed. 

"I  did  not  lie  to  him  just  now.  You  heard 
me.  I  have  placed  all  my  life  on  him.  If  he 
fails  me,  I  cannot  continue.  I  will  not  start 
my  life  again.  You  spoke  to  me  of  nature. 
To  a  nature  like  mine  the  whole  value  of  life, 
its  whole  beauty,  rests  in  fidelity.  As  for 
those  women,  who,  having  loved,  love  again — 
who  repeat  to  one  man  the  words  they  whis- 
pered to  another,  who  disown  both  themselves 
and  their  past — they  disgust  and  horrify  me. 
I  do  not  want  to  change;  and  the  most  terrible 
thing,  in  the  case  of  survival,  is  that,  while 
living,  and  in  spite  of  myself,  I  shall  change. 
Even  during  this  year,  since  my  husband  has 
been  ill,  I  have  feared  at  times  that  my  feeling 
for  him,  complete  and  unique  though  it  be, 
might  elude  me. 

"You  recollect  Vincent's  fiancee — poor  Vin- 
cent whose  face  was  crushed, — and  her  ter- 
rified flight  from  the  blind  man  with  his 
bleeding  and  pus-covered  face,  after  she  had 
slipped  in  to  be  present  at  the  dressing,  and 


122  .  The  Night  Cometh 

her  shrieks  in  the  corridors.  '  It  is  he  no  longer ! 
It  is  he  no  longer !  .  .  . '  That  despair  is  mine. 
At  certain  hours,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  can 
no  longer  recognize  my  husband.  I  shudder 
to  think  that  there  are  things  which  he  stirred 
in  me  and  which  he  stirs  no  longer.  But  that 
tremor  is  still  prompted  by  love.  It  is  the 
passionate  desire  to  have  existed  only  for  him 
and  through  him.  To  pass  away  with  him 
is  to  consummate  that  desire.  It  is  to  have 
truly  lived  my  life." 

What  reply  was  to  be  made  to  her?  On 
what  authority,  indeed,  could  one  prove  that 
she  was  wrong?  I  saw  that  she  was  entirely 
sincere,  and  from  absolute  sincerity  comes  a 
strength  which  is  imposing.  To  surprise  a 
human  nature  in  its  most  intimate  logic,  is  to 
admit  it.  It  is  to  legitimate,  momentarily, 
ways  of  thinking  which  we  should  condemn 
as  abominable,  if  isolated  from  that  moan- 
ing and  suffering  personality.  We  can  no 
longer  judge  it  so  long  as  we  feel  that  it  is 
living. 

Formerly   I   had  indeed  suspected,  in  the 


The  Failure  of  an  Endeavour     123 

case  of  Mme.  Ortegue,  the  influence  of  the  two 
highly  educated  men  in  whose  atmosphere 
the  young  girl  first  of  all  and  then  the  woman 
had  grown  up.  But  her  beauty  and  elegance, 
the  apparent  frivolity  of  her  luxurious  life, 
her  self-control,  and  her  habitual  discretion 
had  not  allowed  me  to  penetrate  her  character, 
which  was  strongly  coherent  in  its  complexity. 
I  now  noted  to  what  a  degree  her  father's  mind 
and  that  of  her  husband  mastered  her  own. 
She  was  not  of  Breton  origin  for  nothing. 
She  had  adhered  to  their  teaching  as  to  a 
faith.  That  insane  resolution  to  commit 
suicide  had  sprung  from  the  depths  of  this 
nature,  which  was  so  concentrated,  and  capa- 
ble of  the  most  violent  and  fixed  purposes. 
This  woman's  determination,  endowed  with 
supreme  devotion,  mingled  with  exaltation 
and  reasoning,  conceived  in  a  delirium  of  pity 
and  justified  by  nihilistic  axioms,  was  the 
conclusion,  the  sum  total  of  a  whole  exist- 
ence, at  once  ardently  romantic  and  severely 
systematic. 

To  oppose  frenzies  of  this  intensity  with 


124  The  Night  Cometh 

academic  arguments  was  like  barring  a  torrent 
with  a  dam  of  pebbles.  The  rushing  water 
merely  sweeps  them  aside  and  roars  the  louder. 
Purely  abstract  ideas  cannot  arrest  souls 
which  are  in  that  state  of  absolute  tension 
where  intelligence  and  passion  form  a  whole. 
They  bend  only  under  a  power  analogous  to 
that  of  the  apostleship,  under  the  influx  of 
other  souls  in  a  similar  state  of  tension.  Life 
alone  struggles  against  life.  My  inner  weak- 
ness, my  own  intellectual  indecision  would, 
in  any  case,  have  resulted  in  my  disarming 
when  confronted  by  the  force  of  such  a  wild 
outburst. 

Meanwhile,  another  circumstance  para- 
lysed me.  Conjugal  intimacy  possesses  its 
arcana.  To  penetrate  too  far  into  it  is  a 
profanation.  I  felt  that  to  be  so,  at  that 
moment,  and  also  that  I  had  listened — against 
my  will — but  listened  all  the  same,  to  what  I 
ought  never  to  have  heard. 

It  was  necessary,  however,  to  speak  to  her, 
so,  finding  but  words  of  the  simplest  humanity, 
I  said: 


The  Failure  of  an  Endeavour     125 

"How  unhappy  you  are,  Madam,  and  how 
I  pity  you!" 

11 1  am  not  to  be  pitied,"  she  replied,  with  a 
pride  which  reminded  me  of  Ortegue,  and  the 
shake  of  her  head  when  I  had  clasped  her 
hand  after  hearing  her  disclosure. 

She  was  truly,  notwithstanding  the  differ- 
ence in  their  ages,  the  wife  of  this  man.  That 
was  also  proved  by  her  promptitude  in  decid- 
ing to  cut  short  a  scene  which  was  about  to 
degenerate  into  one  of  useless  emotion.  She 
had  spoken  to  me  merely  with  the  object  of 
obviating  fresh  intrusions  in  the  tragic  tete-a- 
tete  which  she  was  determined  to  maintain 
until  the  end,  between  herself  and  her  hus- 
band. She  already  regretted  that  this  out- 
burst had  exceeded  her  purpose.  I  saw  her 
stiffen,  and  it  was  in  a  dry  and  cutting  tone 
that  she  added : 

"All  this  is  waste  time,  both  for  myself, 
who  have  accounts  to  finish  before  my  hus- 
band wakes  up,  and  for  you,  who  have  to 
watch  over  your  patient.  Go." 

I  obeyed  her,  but  I  had  hardly  passed  the 


126  The  Night  Cometh 

doorway  and  broken  the  magnetism  of  her 
presence  when  I  recovered  myself,  and,  walk- 
ing along  the  corridors,  kept  on  repeating: 

"I  will  prevent  this  horrible  thing.     I  will 
prevent  it.     But  how?" 


XV 

TIME,    THE  ALLY 

CERTAIN  silences  after  certain  words 
make  a  very  strange  impression.  When 
I  met  Mme.  Ortegue  two  hours  later,  I  felt 
that  any  allusion  to  our  conversation  was 
impossible.  She  had  recovered  herself,  and 
would  never  have  permitted  it.  We  found 
ourselves  in  Ortegue 's  presence,  and  he  also 
had  regained  self-control.  Rested  by  his 
short  sleep,  he  asked  to  see  me  in  order  to 
secure  exact  details  about  that  morning's 
operation. 

"I  am  pleased  with  you,  my  dear  Marsal," 
he  said.  "It  is  a  great  comfort.  It  is  im- 
probable that  I  shall  ever  operate  again." 
He  stopped  my  protesting  gesture.  "But 
though  the  hand  fails,  diagnosis  remains.  I 

can  still  render  service — with  your  aid.     Con- 

127 


128  The  Night  Cometh 

fess  that  I  was  right,  at  Beaujon,  in  telling 
you  over  and  over  again:  'Be  a  surgeon.' 
Based  on  Science,  it  is  so  fine  an  Art!  What 
intellectual  emotions  arise  when,  knife  in 
hand,  and  the  most  minute  anatomical  details 
returning  to  us,  we  literally  graft  our  action 
on  to  that  of  life !  This  war  offers  us  an  extra- 
ordinary, a  unique  opportunity  for  performing 
experiments.  Take  careful  note  of  to-day's 
business  and  particularly  the  signs  of  localiza- 
tion. You  recollect  them?" 

As,  in  a  few  luminous  phrases,  he  summed 
up  for  me  his  reasons  for  having  substituted 
in  the  present  case  the  diagnosis  of  a  pressure 
on  the  spinal  cord  for  that  of  a  section,  which 
had  first  been  adopted,  I  was  surprised  by  the 
serenity  which  was  now  stamped  on  his  face. 
His  whole  being  was  expressive  of  expansion, 
quietude,  placidity.  That  this  master  of  the 
knife  could  lay  aside  everything  with  such 
tranquillity,  that  this  prince  of  surgery  could 
abdicate  with  such  resignation — what  an 
indication!  It  was  this  plan  of  a  double 
suicide,  offered  in  the  bewilderment  of  pity 


Time,  the  Ally  129 

and  accepted  in  the  aberration  of  despair — 
this  delirious  compact,  that  calmed  the  violent 
and  convulsive  storm  of  his  rebellion  as  though 
miraculously.  The  dying  man,  enraged  to 
find  everything  falling  into  decay  and  ruin 
in  himself  and  around  him,  suddenly  found 
the  strength  to  say  farewell  to  a  life  in  which 
he  would  not  leave  the  one  he  loved — ah! 
loved  with  how  great  an  ardour  and  insanity! 

Such  peace  of  mind  was  more  terrifying  to 
me  than  all  the  recent  outbursts.  That 
monstrous  death-contract,  between  this  man 
and  this  woman,  was  not,  then,  a  game,  the 
caprice  of  a  moment  of  folly?  These  two  had 
accepted  it,  immediately  it  had  been  conceived, 
with  absolute,  total,  and  irrepressible  sincerity. 

Seeing  them  thus — he  so  ill,  yet  almost 
ecstatic  through  the  double  intoxication  due 
to  morphine  and  passion,  she  with  a  bewitched 
look  in  her  eyes — I  had  the  proof  that  I  was 
face  to  face  with  a  phenomenon  of  reciprocal 
fascination,  against  which  any  intervention 
would  be  vain.  I  had  been  present  at  the 
simultaneous  inception  of  their  determination 


130  The  Night  Cometh 

to  commit  suicide.  It  had  not  been  imposed 
upon  them,  but  communicated  from  one  to 
the  other  by  a  sentimental  contagion  which 
appeared  to  me  at  that  moment  a  stroke  of 
destiny,  a  fatum  at  the  thought  of  which  I 
shuddered  with  terror  to  the  innermost  depths 
of  my  soul. 

This  idea  of  fatality  is  incessantly  encoun- 
tered by  the  doctor.  There  is  nothing  which 
our  profession  teaches  us  to  face  more  often; 
to  accept  it  when  the  issue  is  immediate  and 
overwlielming,  and  to  combat  it  when  the 
day  of  reckoning,  uncertain  or  retarded, 
leaves  us  the  time.  Time;  that  is  our  battle- 
field. Better  still,  it  is  our  ally.  How  many 
times  have  we  seen  its  slow  and  silent  action 
amend  the  irreparable,  introduce  into  the 
logical  course  of  facts  an  unexpected  element 
which  refutes  our  surest  calculations!  Time 
was  on  my  side.  Let  it  be  my  excuse  for  not 
having  at  once  tried  everything  that  could 
possibly  militate  against  the  sinister  project 
into  the  secret  of  which  chance  had  just 
admitted  me. 


Time,  the  Ally  131 

I  knew  that  it  would  not  be  accomplished 
either  on  the  morrow,  or  the  day  afterwards, 
or  before  many  days.  Ortegue's  love  fever 
guaranteed  that;  he  would  postpone  to  the 
last  moment  the  act  of  eternal  separation. 
In  the  meanwhile,  perhaps,  the  voice  of  con- 
science would  of  its  own  accord  revive  in  him. 
Another  conversation  which  we  had,  almost 
immediately  proved  that  to  me;  in  the  midst 
of  the  wreckage  of  his  old  morality,  he  re- 
tained the  sense  of  probity.  For  he  made  a 
point  of  excusing  himself  for  his  relapse  into 
morphinism. 

"Marsal,  confess  that  you  have  lost  your 
esteem  for  me  owing  to  my  having  recom- 
menced these  injections?  You  are  wrong. 
I  have  not  forfeited  my  word.  I  entered  into 
a  compact  with  myself  to  suffer  in  order  to 
remain  capable  of  operating  and  to  be  of 
service.  But,  since  I  can  do  no  more,  I  have 
taken  back  my  word.  Operate?  Even  if  the 
recollection  of  my  breakdown  did  not  forbid 
it,  my  strength  would  no  longer  permit.  .  .  . 
Look,  I  can  hardly  lift  this  book.  .  .  ." 


132  The  Night  Cometh 

It  was  his  big  Traite  clinique  de  Chirurgie 
Nerveuse,  published  the  preceding  year.  He 
opened  it,  and,  showing  me  some  notes 
pencilled  on  the  margins,  said : 

"I  am  rectifying  a  few  small  details.  If  it 
is  ever  reprinted,  insert  these  corrections. 
Marsal,  a  scientist  can  never  be  too  careful." 

What  an  invitation  to  speak  to  him  was 
this  scrupulousness  of  his!  But  how  could 
I  confess  that  I  had  listened  to  his  terrible 
conversation  with  his  wife  without  running 
the  risk  of  one  of  those  excessively  violent 
outbursts  of  anger,  such  as  he  had  had  of 
recent  weeks,  and  of  a  complete  rupture  be- 
tween us?  If  he  were  to  send  me  away  from 
the  Rue  Saint  Guillaume — he  was  the  master 
there — it  would  be  impossible  to  recover  con- 
tact with  the  two  accomplices  on  the  crime 
which  I  wished,  at  all  cost,  to  prevent.  Yes, 
it  was  necessary  to  exercise  patience,  since, 
once  more,  time  was  on  my  side.  Had  I  not 
before  me  an  example  of  that  sovereign  power 
which  waiting  carries  with  it,  the  example  of 
the  battle  of  the  Marne,  the  development  of 


Time,  the  Ally  133 

which  was  in  my  case  mingled  with  all  the 
emotions  of  that  hard  month  of  September? 
Ortegue  himself  talked  to  me  about  it  inces- 
santly. 

"  Do  you  know  why  Joffre  is  a  great  man?  " 
he  said  to  me.  "Because  he  is  waging  a 
scientific  war." 

He  evoked  the  picture  of  the  general  at 
Charleroi,  measuring  the  extent  of  the  German 
avalanche,  mathematically,  calculating  that 
his  own  reserves  would  not  reach  the  front  in 
time  to  be  useful,  and  moving  back  his  front 
towards  them. 

"It's  simple  common  sense  and  observa- 
tion. To  submit  one's  idea  to  facts  and  be 
ready  to  abandon,  modify,  or  change  it,  according 
to  what  the  observation  of  phenomena  teaches, 
this  phrase  from  the  writings  of  Claude  Ber- 
nard remains  as  true  of  war  as  of  the  labora- 
tory. Two  different  methods  do  not  exist 
for  the  human  mind.  One  alone  is  of  value: 
to  observe  reality  as  it  is,  and  conform  to  it. 
One  can  only  act  on  facts  with  facts." 

I  listened  to  him  reasoning,  so  justly  and 


134  The  Night  Cometh 

uprightly,  and  marvelled  to  find  in  the  one 
man  so  much  wisdom  united  with  such  mental 
alienation.  Throughout  the  day,  in  the  midst 
of  my  hospital  duties,  I  repeated  to  myself, 
in  paying  tribute  to  him,  his  admirably  precise 
formula:  "One  can  only  act  on  facts  with 
facts/*  Between  two  dressings,  I  endeav- 
oured, in  imagination,  to  apply  it  to  the  pro- 
blem which  was  beginning  to  obsess  me,  and 
which  I  felt  would  obsess  me  all  my  life  if  I 
did  not  succeed  in  solving  it  before  the  date 
fixed^by  Ortegue.  The  fact  that  I  had  dis- 
covered that  abominable  intention  of  double 
suicide,  by  means  of  what  other  facts  could 
I  prevent  it?  I  came  to  the  conclusion  by 
psychological  facts  alone.  But  the  materials 
vanished.  There  was  no  t  coercion  which 
enabled  one  to  prevent  offences  of  this 
nature,  and  as  to  modifying  Ortegue 's  state 
of  health,  the  primary  and  fundamental  ele- 
ment in  the  drama,  one  might  as  well 
have  thought  of  trying  to  give  him  back 
the  healthy  organism  of  his  twenty-fifth  year. 
I  hesitated  in  the  presence  of  that  other  fact, 


Time,  the  Ally  135 

— an  explanation  with  him.  I  have  stated 
why. 

One  field  only  remained  open  to  me, — 
Mme.  Ortegue's  mental  disposition.  She  also 
— she  above  all — might  change.  The  instinct 
to  live  is  still  very  powerful  at  her  age!  Yes, 
but  personal  honour  is  also  very  powerful, 
the  need  of  keeping  an  engagement  all  the 
stronger  the  more  redoubtable  and  painful  it 
is!  That  had  been  made  only  too  clear  to 
me  on  the  occasion  of  our  explanation;  she 
was  one  of  those  women  who  cannot  bear  even 
the  suspicion  of  being  considered  afraid  or 
anxious  to  draw  back.  How  could  I  speak  to 
her,  confronted  by  the  apprehension  of  seeing 
her  stiffen  still  more  in  the  pride  of  her  tragic 
sacrifice? 

Days,  however,  followed  days  and  stretched 
out  into  weeks.  After  that  Monday  of  Sep- 
tember 28th,  came  Monday,  October  5th, 
and  then  Monday,  October  I2th.  If  I  had 
kept  a  daily  bulletin  of  my  relations  with  the 
Ort£gue  household,  I  should  have  had  to  write 
down,  every  evening,  those  words  "  situation 


136  The  Night  Cometh 

unchanged,"  which  made  me  extremely  low 
spirited  through  reading  them  too  often  in 
the  Communique.  For  the  war — so  near, 
eighty  kilometres  from  Paris,  and  still  so 
uncertain — continued. 

I  followed  its  events  with  every  bit  as  much 
anxiety  as  if  I  had  not  been  involved  in  this 
private  drama,  a  very  insignificant  and  sorry 
drama,  however,  compared  to  the  other!  I 
realized  that  only  too  well,  and  that  the  tre- 
mendous struggle,  prolonged  at  that  time  on 
the  Aisne,  was,  in  comparison  with  the  possible 
suicide  of  a  deluded  couple,  what  an  earth- 
quake, like  that  of  Lisbon  or  Messina,  is  to  the 
crushing  of  two  poor  ants.  Yet  the  national 
disquietude  did  not  succeed  in  paralysing 
that  other  disquietude  which  was  within  me. 
The  two  mingled  while  growing  keener.  With 
feverish  haste,  I  opened  the  newspaper  in  the 
morning  to  learn  what  progress  we  had  made 
round  Arras,  in  theWoevre,  on  the  Haut-de- 
Meuse,  and  closed  it  without  finishing  what 
I  was  reading,  whenever  Ortegue  or  his  wife 
drew  near,  so  that  I  might  devote  my  whole 


Time,  the  Ally  137 

attention  to  a  scrutiny  of  their  faces.  What 
stage  of  their  criminal  plan  had  they  reached? 
Had  they  again  spoken  of  it? 

Naturally  I  deciphered  on  the  face  of  my 
poor  director  nothing  save  the  progress  of  the 
implacable  disease,  and,  on  that  of  his  com- 
panion, the  determination  to  avoid  my  in- 
quiry. She  now  overwhelmed  herself  with 
work.  Everybody  was  astonished  by  her 
indefatigable  activity.  From  morning  until 
night  I  saw  her  passing  between  her  husband's 
study  and  the  various  wards  of  the  hospital, 
reporting  the  slightest  incidents  to  him,  and 
transmitting  the  orders  which  he  insisted  on 
giving  from  his  sofa.  He  remained  stretched 
upon  it  for  hours  together,  smoking  cigarette 
after  cigarette. 

There  was  a  perplexing  contrast  between 
the  fatal  resolution  which  the  young  woman 
concealed  beneath  her  beautiful,  serious  face 
and  the  assiduous  work  of  charity  in  which  I 
saw  her  engaged.  I  endeavoured  to  discern 
in  it  the  clue  to  secret  remorse.  Her  almost 
feverish  desire  to  be  useful  to  the  unfortunate 


138  The  Night  Cometh 

seemed  to  me,  at  times,  to  be  an  anticipated 
expiation.  "It  is  impossible,"  I  said  to  my- 
self, again  and  again,  "  that  she  does  not  feel 
the  truth  of  my  words:  that  suicide  at  such 
a  time  as  this  is  desertion.  I  have  made  an 
appeal  to  this  sentiment  once.  I  will  try 
again."  I  waited  and  waited,  with  the  idea 
of  allowing  this  evidence  to  be  still  further 
strengthened  in  her. 

From  time  to  time  she  uttered  very  simple 
remarks  which  proved  to  me  to  what  a  depth 
the  terrible  sights  of  the  hospital  penetrated 
her  imagination,  and  how  keenly  also  she 
appreciated  the  value  of  humble  alleviation. 
I  recollect,  for  instance,  that  one  of  her  friends 
— a  woman  of  her  own  age,  extremely  pretty, 
and  dressed  in  the  latest  style — having  come 
to  invite  her  to  dinner,  I  said  to  her: 

"It  is  astounding  to  see  how  unaware  some 
people  are  of  the  war." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  replied.  "She  is  a  very- 
good  soul,  but  does  not  see  the  wounded.  If  I 
were  to  go  and  dine  in  town  as  she  does,  I 
veritably  believe  that  those  who  are  here  would 


Time,  the  Ally  139 

rise  up  at  table  before  me  and  put  me  to 
shame.  So  long  as  they  are  suffering,  we 
ought  not  to  live  as  we  did  before." 

On  another  occasion,  to  be  precise — one 
morning — as  she  found  me  finishing  a  news- 
paper, I  handed  it  to  her  with  the  words: 

"  Read  that.     It  is  a  most  eloquent  article.'* 

"No,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  gesture  of 
refusal.  "What  is  said  or  written  does  not 
interest  me  in  the  slightest."  And  then, 
pointing  to  some  amputated  soldiers  who  were 
crossing  the  peristyle,  "Nothing  real  exists 
save  the  sufferings  of  these  poor  fellows,  and 
the  assistance  we  can  render  them.  I  cannot 
understand  how  any  one  in  France,  to-day, 
can  think  of  anything  else  but  fighting  or 
nursing." 

The  very  evening  of  the  day  on  which  she 
had  touched  me  by  this  generous  profession 
of  faith,  another  vision  of  her  inspired  in  me 
the  hope  that  the  fatal  design  would  not  be 
carried  out.  We  were  getting  near  the  middle 
of  October.  The  battle  was  raging  from  Lille 
to  Verdun,  and,  owing  to  incredible  adminis- 


140  The  Night  Cometh 

trative  incoherence,  the  arrival  of  wounded 
was  almost  suspended  at  our  place.  Five 
o'clock  had  just  struck.  The  afternoon  dress- 
ings had  been  finished  sooner  than  usual. 
There  reigned  in  the  corridors  that  silence 
which  follows  visits  to  the  wounded.  It  was 
the  moment  when  the  convalescents  were 
coming  in  from  the  garden  in  order  to  avoid 
being  surprised  by  the  first  chilly  evenings  of 
autumn.  I  had  gone  to  the  window  to  see  if 
our  soldiers  were  obeying  orders,  and  if  any 
of  them  were  lingering. 

I  saw  Mme.  Ortegue  walking  alone  in  the 
deserted  alleys.  At  first  I  could  hardly  re- 
cognize her,  so  strangely  did  she  (whose  walk 
was  usually  so  firm  and  quick)  drag  herself 
along,  as  though  tired  and  broken.  She 
strolled  along,  contemplating,  amidst  the  thin 
and  golden  foliage  of  the  trees,  the  beautiful 
sunset — an  orange-coloured  sky,  with  pale- 
green  reflections.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred 
the  air.  The  immobility  of  this  verdant  spot 
made  that  small  garden,  enclosed  as  it  was 
within  other  gardens,  seem  like  a  little  park, 


Time,  the  Ally  141 

all  peace  and  harmony.  The  fagades  of  ad- 
jacent mansions  were  presented  in  profile 
beyond.  I  could  see,  amidst  the  openings  in 
the  foliage,  their  discoloured  and  neutral  tints 
showing  from  space  to  space,  with  the  rays  of 
the  sun  striking  the  panes  of  a  few  high 
windows. 

The  extraordinary  tranquillity  of  the  place 
and  the  hour  harmonized  with  the  white  sil- 
houette which  I  watched  as  it  moved  along 
with  a  step  that  seemed  more  and  more 
fatigued.  Was  that  restful  atmosphere  reach- 
ing the  young  woman's  tortured  heart,  or  was 
she  suffering  from  the  contrast  between  the 
peace  of  things  around  her  and  her  thoughts? 
The  lawn  was  jewelled  with  the  clumps  of 
flowers  which  Ortegue  renewed  weekly.  That 
was  one  of  the  luxuries  of  his  Clinique,  a  lux- 
ury which,  in  spite  of  the  war,  he  continued, 
through  one  of  those  little  persistencies  of  pride 
and  self-loVe  that  were  customary  to  him. 

Mme.  Ortegue  stopped  before  a  rose-tree 
full  of  deep  scarlet  blooms.  She  plucked  one 
and  raised  it  to  her  face.  At  that  distance, 


142  The  Night  Cometh 

and  in  the  gathering  twilight,  I  could  not  dis- 
tinguish her  features,  but  what  a  symbol  that 
movement  was,  that  attitude,  that  flower, 
the  fragrance  of  which  was  long  and  volup- 
tuously inhaled,  amid  the  blazing  sunset,  by 
a  woman  who,  in  my  hearing,  had'dedicated 
herself  to  death,  and  who  now  suddenly  ap- 
peared to  me  as  the  young  captive  of  the 
legend,  saying  farewell  to  life,  regretting  it  all, 
regretting  herself!  Did  she,  who  had  already 
come  into  contact  several  times  in  our  hospital 
with  the  cold  and  sinister  reality  of  death, 
mentally  start  back  in  terror  at  the  thought  of 
an  engagement,  made  in  a  burst  of  pity,  so 
tender  yet  so  insane?  Was  nature  revolting 
in  her  over-impulsive  soul  against  that  pro- 
mise which  had  gushed  forth  in  a  moment  of 
superhuman  tension? 

The  silent  drama  which  I  conjured  up  was 
suddenly  completed  by  the  arrival  of  Ortegue. 
I  saw  him  descending  the  steps,  doubtless  in 
search  of  his  wife.  He  walked  a  few  paces 
along  the  alley,  without  interrupting  the 
reverie  into  which,  still  motionless  and  with  the 


Time,  the  Ally  143 

fragrant  red  flower  held  to  her  face,  she  was 
plunged.  He  stopped  and  in  turn  looked  at 
her,  as  she  just  before  had  gazed  at  the  roses. 
The  horizon  had  become  obliterated.  The 
sun's  reflections  nolongershone  on  the  window- 
panes.  It  was  as  though  the  enchantment  of 
that  peaceful  hour  had  vanished  because  of 
Ortegue's  very  presence. 

What  was  he  himself  thinking  of,  as  he 
contemplated  that  woman's  melancholy?  Did 
he  indeed  still  think  of  dragging  her  with  him 
to  the  grave?  Suddenly  he  approached  her 
and  placed  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She 
turned  round,  as  though  frightened,  and  then 
I  saw  them  slowly  returning  towards  the 
house,  without  a  word,  each  fearing  perhaps 
the  voice  of  the  other.  Seized  with  pity  on 
account  of  their  silence,  I  descended  to  meet 
them.  We  met  on  the  steps,  and  I  began  to 
talk  to  them  about  a  household  question, 
which  served  Mme.  Ortegue  as  a  pretext  for 
leaving  us. 

"I  will  set  that  right,"  she  said,  "and 
return." 


144  The  Night  Cometh 

On  leaving  she  had  placed  the  beautiful 
rose  on  a  table  of  the  peristyle.  Ortegue, 
who  had  sat  down,  picked  up  the  flower,  and 
with  his  hands,  which  he  now  always  kept 
gloved  in  order  to  hide  their  darkening  colour, 
began  to  pull  it  to  pieces,  petal  by  petal,  with 
a  cruel  expression  on  his  thin,  bronzed  face, 
and  a  look  of  hatred  in  his  fiery  eyes,  whose 
brown  sclerotic  was  terrifying  to  behold. 
When  all  the  petals  had  fallen  on  the  floor,  he 
threw  the  sad  and  mutilated  debris  of  that 
lovely  rose  on  the  table,  and,  with  a  spasmodic 
laugh,  exclaimed: 

"This  is  what  I've  come  to,  Marsal — re- 
venging myself  on  flowers — I,  Michel  Ortegue ! " 
".  .  .  Michel  Ort£gue!"  he  repeated,  and  with 
that  he  disappeared  by  the  same  door  through 
which  had  passed  his  wife,  without  my  finding 
a  word  to  answer  him. 


XVI 
LE  GALLIC'S  RETURN  TO  THE  CLINIQUE 

HALF  an  hour  later,  he  called  me  into 
his  office.  He  was  holding  a  telegram, 
which  he  handed  to  me.  A  doctor  at  the 
front — an  old  pupil  of  his — announced  the 
sending  to  the  hospital  in  the  Rue  Saint  Guil- 
laume  of  Lieutenant  Ernest  Le  Gallic,  seriously 
wounded  in  the  head  during  one  of  the  fights 
around  Albert. 

"I  should  like  you  to  break  the  news  to 
Catherine, "  Ortegue  said.  "I've  no  more 
strength  for  anything.  I'm  going  to  have 
a  sleep/' 

There  floated  in  his  eyes  a  torpid  look,  which 
proved  to  me,  as  did  the  half -open  drawer  in 
which  he  kept  his  morphia,  that  he  had  just 
given  himself  a  hypodermic  injection.  But 
this  time  it  was  no  longer  physical  pain  which 

10  145 


146  The  Night  Cometh 

he  wished  to  deaden.  The  recent  scene  re- 
vealed that  only  too  clearly.  What  a  descent 
into  the  abyss!  What  degradation  since  the 
day — recent  as  it  was — when  he  received  that 
same  Le  Gallic  in  that  very  study  with  such 
aggressive  words,  but  with  such  firmness  still 
pervading  his  whole  being!  I  recollected 
that,  on  passing  into  the  corridor,  and  his 
pleasantry  concerning  the  names  of  flowers 
substituted  tor  those  of  saints.  I  also  remem- 
bered my  first  suspicions — very  quickly  com- 
bated— regarding  Mme.  Ortegue  and  the 
interest  inspired  by  her  cousin.  I  was  about 
to  see  how  well  justified  I  had  been  in  not 
giving  way  to  them,  and  that  this  woman's 
soul  was  too  loyal  ever  to  have  harboured, 
since  her  marriage,  a  feeling  of  which  she 
might  have  been  ashamed. 

"Poor  Ernest!"  she  said,  simply  ^  when  she 
had  read  the  telegram,  and  big  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks.  She  strove  to  hide  them  no  more 
than  the  honest  emotion  which  brought  them 
forth.  "I  expected  it,"  she  continued.  "It 
was  inevitable.  The  best  are  struck  down. 


Le  Gallic's  Return  to  the  Clinique  147 

They  are  the  bravest  and,  to  set  an  example, 
expose  themselves.  And  my  cousin  was  so 
brave!  Even  when  quite  a  child  he  gave  a 
proof  of  his  courage.  I  can  see  him  again, 
at  the  age  of  ten,  during  the  holidays  which  we 
spent  together  at  Treguier.  They  had  been 
repairing  the  cloister,  and  there  was  a  scaffold- 
ing which  reached  to  the  roof.  A  little  boy 
of  the  town  had  climbed — goodness  only 
knows  how — one  of  the  topmost  poles,  in 
order  to  recover  his  kite.  Having  got  there, 
he  remained  astride  the  pole,  seized  with  terror, 
and  daring  neither  to  advance  nor  to  come 
back.  He  saw  us  and  cried  for  help. 

"  Before  the  maid  who  was  in  charge  of  us 
could  stop  him,  Ernest  rushed  forward  and, 
climbing  from  plank  to  plank,  walked  along 
the  pole,  calling  to  the  little  fellow:  'You  see, 
it's  not  at  all  dangerous.'  He  then  seized 
him  by  the  hand,  brought  him  back,  and  re- 
turned for  the  kite,  without  ever  once  crouch- 
ing. I  can  still  hear  him  say  to  me:  'You've 
no  idea,  Catherine,  how  amusing  it  is  to  be 
frightened  and  to  go  all  the  same.'  He  loved 


148  The  Night  Cometh 

danger.  What  I  fear,  Marsal,  is  that,  with 
this  wound  on  his  head,  he  may  be  no  longer 
in  his  right  mind.  What  a  sad  thing  it  is 
when  a  man  is  no  longer  himself!" 

"But  why  do  you  fear  that?"  I  asked. 

"Because  they  are  sending  him  here,"  she 
replied;  and  then,  shuddering,  "You  get  used 
to  everything  in  a  hospital  except  that.  I 
thought  of  it  last  night,  when  sitting  up  in 
the  ward.  To  me,  during  those  vigils,  there 
is  always  a  touching  moment:  that  when  the 
grey  light  of  dawn  enters  the  rooms.  Through- 
out the  night,  one  has  heard  heavy  breathing, 
suppressed  sighs,  moans,  the  sound  of  those 
in  pain.  At  that  moment  pain  is  visible,  but 
it  is  also  the  moment  when,  almost  always,  it 
diminishes,  and,  in  the  presence  of  those 
suffering  bodies,  which,  despite  everything, 
are  at  rest,  one  begins  to  hope.  We  tell  our- 
selves that  that  sleep  is  in  itself  a  slight  relief. 
We  look  at  them,  bed  after  bed  We  are 
acquainted  with  their  wounds.  We  say  to 
ourselves:  'In  two,  three,  five  months  they 
will  be  cured. '  And  then  our  eyes  rest  on  one 


Le  Gallic's  Return  to  the  Clinique  149 

of  those  for  whom  this  healing  of  the  animal 
part  of  man  will  be  but  the  perpetuation  of  a 
diminished  and  shattered  existence,  without 
either  memory  or  speech.  In  the  case  of 
those,  we  hope  that  they  may  never  wake  again. 
Ah !  if  I  were  to  see  my  poor  Ernest  like  that ! " 

"Don't  look  on  the  blackest  side  of  things, 
Madam,"  I  begged,  "that  will  never  do." 

"You  are  right,"  she  said.  "Besides,  we 
cannot."  On  uttering  these  enigmatic  words, 
which  nevertheless  were  so  plain  to  me,  her 
look  once  more  became  gloomy.  She  mastered 
herself,  however,  and  said:  "We  must  prepare 
the  room  in  which  we  are  to  put  him.  The 
one  which  has  been  empty  since  this  morning 
— the  first  to  the  right,  you  know,  in  the  second 
corridor.  I  ought  to  say  the  Lily-of-the-Valley 
Room.  But  these  floral  names  applied  to 
such  places  are  too  sinister  nowadays." 

There  was,  indeed,  an  extraordinary  con- 
trast between  the  ideas  of  spring,  freshness 
and  light  gaiety,  evoked  by  the  recollection  of 
the  May  lily,  Lilium  convallium,  and  the  ap- 


150  The  Night  Cometh 

pearance  of  the  poor  fellow  whom  the  army 
medical  corps  sent  us  the  next  day.  Although 
Le  Gallic  was  able  to  walk,  he  was  carried  on 
a  stretcher,  in  accordance  with  the  instructions 
of  the  surgeon  who  had  first  attended  him, 
and  who  evidently  feared  the  consequences 
of  the  slightest  movement.  His  head  was 
enveloped  in  several  layers  of  gauze,  which 
continued  round  his  chin.  Thus  enframed,  his 
energetic  face  was  thrown  into  relief — pale,  hol- 
low-cheeked, eyes  dilated,  filled  with  a  look  of 
animal  melancholy,  if  I  may  so  express  myself. 
Two  months  of  warfare  had  passed  over 
the  enthusiastic  lieutenant,  who,  in  the  plenti- 
tude  of  his  strength,  had  set  off  at  the  begin- 
ning of  August.  He  returned  to  us,  worn  out 
by  his  wound  and  over-fatigue,  and  also  as 
the  result  of  too  many  emotions.  However, 
the  fear  expressed  by  Mme.  Ortegue  was  not 
justified.  In  his  deeply  injured  body,  the 
mind  remained  intact;  courage  and  hope  were 
the  same  as  before.  He  proved  it  by  his  first 
words,  when  hardly  installed  in  his  room,  and 
on  seeing  the  tears  in  his  cousin's  eyes. 


Le  Gallic's  Return  to  the  Clinique  151 

"You  must  not  cry,  Catherine.  I'm  not 
worth  it.  There  could  only  be  one  sad  thing 
to-day — the  victory  of  the  Germans;  and 
they  are  beaten.  As  for  myself,  I've  never 
asked  God  for  anything  so  much  as  to  fall 
facing  the  enemy  in  a  just  war."  And  with  a 
smile:  "He  has  spoiled  me,  since  he  has 
granted  me,  in  addition,  the  favour  of  knowing 
it." 

"Come,  now,  my  little  Ernest,"  said  Or- 
tegue,  who  had  insisted  on  superintending  the 
conveyance  of  the  wounded  man,  "don't  talk 
too  much.  What  I  want  to  know  is  the  truth 
regarding  that  slight  hurt  of  yours.  Undo 
his  dressing,  Marsal,  and  you,  Ernest,  answer 
my  questions,  by  monosyllables,  so  that  you 
may  not  tire  yourself.  First  of  all,  how  many 
days  exactly  is  it  since  you  were  wounded?" 
/'Six." 

"And  where  does  it  hurt?  Here?  .  .  . 
Here?  .  .  .  Here  ?  .  .  ." 

He  traced  with  his  hand  the  surface  of  his 
own  neck.  Le  Gallic  stopped  him  as  he  was 
following  the  course  of  the  occipital  nerves. 


152  The  Night  Cometh 

"Yes,  there." 

"Do  you  suffer  much?" 

"Yes." 

"Those  are  the  inner  nerves  which  are  torn 
or  bruised.  .  .  .  Any  dizziness? " 

"Not  just  now." 

"Any  fever?  .  .  ."  He  had  placed  a  ther- 
mometer under  his  arm.  "None.  Have  you 
had  convulsions?" 

"No." 

"Good!  The  mind  is  intact.  .  .  .  Can  you 
see  my  fingers?" 

He  had  placed  his  two  hands  at  a  short 
distance  an  each  side  of  the  temples  of  the 
wounded  man,  who  replied: 

"Not  very  well/' 

I  had  finished  unwinding  the  gauze  bands. 
At  the  back  of  the  head  we  saw  a  small  hole, 
which  was  rendered  all  the  more  discernible 
owing  to  the  fact  that  care  had  been  taken  to 
shave  away  the  hair  surrounding  it.  Ortegue 
made  a  long  examination  of  the  wound. 

"I  think  I  can  establish  your  diagnosis," 
he  said  at  last.  "Lesion  of  the  occipital  bone. 


Le  Gallic's  Return  to  the  Clinique  153 

A  deep  and  penetrating  wound.  The  bullet 
is  still  there.  It  must' be  lodged  in  the  right 
occipital  lobe.  There  is  no  need  to  intervene, 
so  long  as  you  have  neither  dizziness,  nor  fever, 
nor  convulsions.  Judging  by  the  appearance 
of  the  wound,  there  are  no  splinters.  But 
that  is  to  be  verified  by  a  discreet  trepanation. 
You  can  be  cured.  The  bullet  will  become  a 
foreign  body  that  will  be  quite  tolerated. 
Rest  in  bed,  injections  of  morphia  to  calm  that 
wretched  neuralgia,  and  as  few  movements  as 
possible,  so  as  not  to  displace  the  projectile. 
You  are  very  young.  You  will  get  over  this. 
You  have  ahead  of  you  happy  days  to  live, 
my  dear  friend/' 

"Not  happier  than  those  I  have  lived  in 
the  trenches  these  last  few  weeks,"  replied 
the  officer.  "It  is  a  magnificent  thing  to  be 
there,  under  fire,  and  to  say  to  oneself:  'At 
any  moment  I  may  see  God  face  to  face. ' 

"That  will  be  reserved  for  another  time/1 
continued  Ortegue,  in  a  tone  of  forced  gaiety. 
"Our  duty,  as  doctors,  is  to  prevent  those 
appointments,  from  being  kept.  Marsal  will 


154  The  Night  Cometh 

rearrange  your  dressing.  As  for  myself,  I'm 
going  to  rest  a  little.  Do  you  know,  my  poor 
Ernest,  I've  been  very  ill  since  I've  seen  you; 
I  am  so  still.  But  I  was  determined  not  to 
leave  to  any  one,  not  even  to  him" — he 
pointed  to  me — "the  task  of  examining  you. 
To-morrow  we  will  have  you  radiographed  by 
Laugel,  the  most  skilful  man  in  Paris  at  that 
work.  I  shall  be  very  astonished  if  he  does 
not  confirm  my  diagnosis." 

He  retired  from  the  room,  leaving  us  alone 
— Mme.  Ortegue  and  I — by  the  side  of  the 
wounded  man.  Le  Gallic  had  half -closed  his 
eyes  and  his  semi-bandaged  head  was  immo- 
bile on  the  pillow. 

"Well,"  she  began,  "you  see  that  it  isn't 
so  serious.  The  Professor  is  not  often  wrong, 
and  so  long  as  he  does  not  operate  ..."  In 
view  of  the  wounded  man's  silence,  she  insisted : 
"You  believe  what  he  has  told  you,  don't 
you?" 

"I  know  what  I  know,"  he  replied  at  last. 
"I've  seen,  in  an  ambulance  at  the  front,  one 
of  my  comrades  who  was  hit  in  exactly  the 


Le  Gallic's  Return  to  the  Clinique  155 

same  place.  Like  me,  he  was  without  fever, 
without  convulsions,  without  mental  troubles. 
But  he  died  suddenly.  That  will  be  my  story, 
but  I  am  '  cleared, '  as  the  sailors  say  with  us, 
do  you  remember?  Let  us  talk  no  more 
about  myself,  if  you  don't  mind?" 

"Yes,  let  us  continue.  Assure  him,  Mar- 
sal,  that  no  two  wounds  are  alike.  Come  now, 
tell  us  how  you  received  yours,  instead  of 
talking  '  stuff  and  nonsense. '  That  is  another 
homely  expression.  Do  you,  also,  recollect 
it?" 

"Oh,  there  was  nothing  heroic,"  replied  the 
officer,  "nor  even  interesting  in  the  way  I 
was  wounded.  Such  is  war.  You  take  part 
in  twenty  fights ;  the  bullets  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  you.  And  then  you  enter,  as  I 
did,  a  communication  trench,  to  carry  an 
order.  It  is  rest  time;  a  day  of  dead  calm. 
Just  at  the  moment  you  are  unprotected  a 
shell  arrives,  and  you  are  caught,  as  I  was, 
I  should  say  stupidly,  if  it  had  not  happened 
while  I  was  on  duty  and,  above  all,  if  I  had 
not  seen  many  ordinary  soldiers  struck  down 


156  The  Night  Cometh 

under  the  same  conditions  without  complaint. 
And  I,  too,  do  not  complain.  Since  the  be- 
ginning of  the  war  my  comrades  and  I  have 
had  but  one  idea:  to  be  not  too  unworthy  of 
our  men.  They  have  been  splendid." 

"You  also,  I  am  sure  of  it?"  questioned 
Mme.  Ortegue. 

"I  hope  that  I  have  done  my  duty,"  he 
continued.  "But  let  us  speak  about  your 
husband.  He  said  just  now  that  he  had  been 
ill." 

I  seized  the  opportunity  of  replying  first. 

"He  is  better  than  he  was,"  I  said,  "and 
we  hope 

"We  hope  for  nothing,"  exclaimed  Mme. 
Ortegue.  "What  good  is  there  in  lying  to  my 
cousin,  Marsal?  Ernest  will  see  my  husband's 
condition  only  too  clearly.  He  would  ask 
him  if  he  were  suffering,  and  where.  He  would 
irritate  him — you  know  how  he  is — and  use- 
lessly. Yes,  Ernest,  poor  Michel  is  very  ill. 
His  days  are  counted.  A  word  will  tell  you 
everything — he  has  a  cancer." 

For  the  first  time  since  Ortegue  had  left 


Le  Gallic's  Return  to  the  Clinique   157 

the  room,  the  wounded  man  looked  at  his 
cousin.  An  expression  of  infinite  pity  replaced 
on  his  face  that  of  suffering  serenity.  He 
muttered  as  though  to  himself: 

"  You  will  always  find  the  Cross"  Then, 
questioning,  "A  cancer?  There  is  no  doubt 
about  it?  " 

" There  is  no  doubt  about  it." 

" And  he  knows  it?" 

"He  knows  it." 

Le  Gallic  appeared  to  hesitate.  Then 
seriously,  he  said: 

"Allow  me  to  put  a  question  to  you.  What 
stage  has  he  reached,  I  mean  from  the  point 
of  view  of  his  religious  ideas?" 

"What  stage  would  you  have  him  reach? 
You  know  quite  well  that  he  has  never  troubled 
himself  about  those  problems." 

"Even  when  face  to  face  with  death?" 

"Even  when  face  to  face  with  death,"  she 
replied. 

There  was  further  hesitation  on  the  part  of 
Le  Gallic,  and  anxiety  now  in  his  voice: 

"But    you,    Catherine?    When    we  were 


158  The  Night  Cometh 

children,  you  had  faith.  Not  more  than  ten 
years  ago,  at  the  Easter  holidays,  you  were 
almost  a  girl,  and  I  can  see  you  communicat- 
ing by  my  side,  in  the  old  Cathedral  of  Tre- 
guier,  where  for  centuries  those  from  whom 
we  are  descended — you  and  I — received  Holy 
Communion.  Does  not  the  promise  in  which 
they  believed,  and  in  which  you  believed, 
return  to  you  on  the  eve  of  your  being  sepa- 
rated from  your  husband?" 

"What  promise ?" 

"That  of  eternal  life. " 

"There  is  no  eternal  life." 

"I  will  reply  to  you  in  the  words  of  St. 
Paul,  which  a  soldier-priest,  who  was  later 
killed  at  Ypres,  repeated  to  us  in  the  trenches : 
1  If  we  have  hope  for  this  life  only,  we  are  the 
most  wretched  of  men. ' 

"The  point  in  question  is  not  whether  we 
are  wretched,  but  whether  we  are  keeping  to 
the  truth. " 

"The  truth  cannot  reside  in  ideas  that  fail 
to  sustain  us  when  we  suffer  or  die." 

"Look  at  me,   Ernest,   and  look  at  my 


Le  Gallic's  Return  to  the  Clinique    159 

husband/*  she  said,  with  a  strange,  defiant  ac- 
cent. "  You  will  see  whether  we  are  not  sus- 
tained when  it  comes  to  suffering  and  dying." 
And  in  her  turn  she  left  the  room,  adding: 
"  The  Professor  wishes  you  to  speak  as  little  as 
possible,  and  I've  been  making  you  chatter 
and  chatter.  I'm  going  to  fetch  you  a  nurse 
to  whom  Marsal  will  give  his  instructions." 
Then,  with  a  smile,  as  though  to  correct  the 
brusqueness  of  her  flight:  "Good-bye,  Ernest; 
but  not  for  long." 


XVII 

LE   GALLIC,    THE   INSTRUMENT 

I  HAD  trembled  on  hearing  those  words 
with  which  she  invited  the  Christian  to 
watch  her  suffer — and  die,  she  had  added. 
To  Le  Gallic,  this  word  applied  only  to  Or- 
tegue.  But  /  had  understood  that  she  applied 
it  to  herself.  She  had  just  affirmed  anew  that 
determination  to  commit  suicide,  against 
which  I  remained  inactive,  through  a  sense 
of  prudence,  which  became  more  and  more 
mingled  with  remorse.  Suddenly  I  recognized 
in  the  wounded  man  the  instrument  for  carry- 
ing out  that  action  of  which  I  felt  myself  in- 
capable. He  was  Mme.  Ortegue's  nearest 
relative,  excepting  her  mother,  who  had  left 
Paris  at  the  beginning  of  the  month  of  August. 
For  a  minute  I  had  thought  of  writing  to  the 

former  Mme.  Malf an-Trevis ;  then  I  had  given 

1 60 


Le  Gallic,  the  Instrument         161 

up  the  idea  of  introducing  this  egoistic  and 
unintelligent  woman  into  a  conjugal  drama  of 
so  exceptional  a  character. 

I  recalled  the  evidence  I  had  had  when 
listening  to  Mme.  Ortegue's  confession:  the 
futility  of  reasoning  against  passion.  I  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that,  to  dominate  an 
exasperated  soul,  the  influx  of  another  soul 
with  the  force  of  an  apostleship,  was  necessary. 
That  force  was  before  me.  I  had  only  to  look 
at  the  officer's  firm  face  and  at  his  eyes,  whence 
streamed,  in  the  midst  of  his  suffering,  the 
inner  light,  to  recall  the  words  he  had  spoken 
at  his  departure  as  well  as  his  recent  remarks. 
Believing  the  things  he  believed  and  with  such 
sincerity,  this  man  would  be  horror-struck 
at  the  thought  of  this  double  suicide.  What 
would  he  not  do  to  prevent  it?  Alas!  I  had 
no  right  to  inform  him,  no  right  to  betray  a 
secret  which  I  had  learnt  through  an  indis- 
cretion— half  involuntary,  it  is  true,  but 
nevertheless  in  a  manner  entailing  a  certain 
loss  of  esteem.  But  after  all  he  might  guess 
the  truth  of  his  own  accord?  The  few  words 


162  The  Night  Cometh 

with  which  he  commented  on  his  cousin's 
departure  revealed  to  me  indeed  a  deep  and 
almost  divinatory  knowledge  of  her  character. 
I  was  less  astonished  at  that  later,  when  I 
knew  how  much  he  had  loved  her. 

"And  what  do  you  think,  Dr.  Marsal?" 
he  asked  me  first  of  all.  "  Do  you  also  believe 
in  complete  negation?" 

"No,"  I  replied;  "but  neither  do  I  believe 
in  affirmation.  As  regards  everything  con- 
nected with  the  psychic  world,  my  motto  has 
long  been  the  epitaph  of  a  doctor  of  Padua  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  It  is  as  follows:  'I  have 
lived  eighty  years,  I  have  studied  unweary- 
ingly,  and  I  have  at  least  learnt  one  thing: 
not  to  ignore  my  ignorance  .  .  .  ignorantiam 
meam  non  ignorare. ' 

"Humility  is  the  half  of  faith,"  said  Le 
Gallic.  1 1  But  you  heard  what  my  poor  cousin 
said?  She  asks  me  to  watch  her  suffer — and 
you  saw  how  she  hurried  away?  What?  She 
suffer — she  who  has  so  little  strength  with 
which  to  support  suffering ?  Only  pride  knows 
how  to  suffer  wearing  a  mask  as  calm  as  the 


Le  Gallic,  the  Instrument         163 

face  of  faith.  But  that  is  only  a  mask,  hiding 
despair.  Catherine  is  filled  with  doctrines 
inspired  by  pride;  but  she  is  without  pride 
herself.  As  a  girl,  she  adored  her  father,  and 
thought  as  he  did.  Now  she  loves  her  husband, 
and  thinks  as  he  does.  Her  personality  has 
ever  felt  the  need  of  support  from  another. 
She  is  a  woman.  What  will  become  of  her 
when  Ortegue  is  taken  from  her?" 

The  entrance  of  the  nurse  interrupted  this 
conversation.  Mme.  Ortegue  had  brought 
her.  This  time  she  and  I  went  out  together. 
Her  recent  words  had  brought  back  to  me  the 
agitation  I  had  felt  when  stationed  behind 
Ortegue's  study  door  on  the  day  of  the  ter- 
rible scene.  It  was  as  though  I  had  heard  a 
solemn  renewal  of  the  suicidal  compact,  and, 
as  then,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  be  silent. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  radiography  room,"  she 
had  said  to  me,  "and  arrange  the  negatives." 

I  followed  her,  and,  when  hardly  inside  the 
room,  said  abruptly: 

"You  told  your  cousin  to  watch  you  suffer 
and  die.  .  .  .  Die"  I  repeated.  "Are  you 


164  The  Night  Cometh 

still,  then,  intending  to  carry  out  that  terrible 
resolution?" 

She  did  not  even  look  at  me,  but,  walking 
towards  a  table  loaded  with  negatives,  which 
she  began  to  handle,  merely  replied: 

"I  am/' 

But  I  noticed  that,  despite  her  apparent 
tranquillity,  her  hands  trembled  slightly. 
This  sign  of  emotion,  and,  above  all,  the  fact 
that  she  had  not  flatly  stopped  me,  emboldened 
me  to  continue. 

"You  will  do  me  the  justice,  Madam,  to 
admit  that  I  have  kept  my  promise.  I  have 
not  spoken  a  word  to  the  Professor.  And  with 
you  I  have  at  no  time  tried  to  resume  our 
conversation  of  three  weeks  ago." 

"That  is  true,"  she  exclaimed;  "you  have 
acted  as  a  friend.  I  have  felt  that  and  must 
thank  you." 

"Well,  Madam,  I  repeat  what  I  said  to  you 
then,  that  at  the  present  time  your  life  does 
not  wholly  belong  to  you.  You  heard  what 
your  cousin  Le  Gallic  said.  You  have  seen 
him.  By  talking  with  him  you  have  been  able, 


Le  Gallic,  the  Instrument         165 

even  more  than  through  the  instrumentality 
of  the  other  wounded  men,  to  judge  of  the 
feeling  which  animates  all  these  soldiers  who 
are  fighting  for  us.  Do  you  not  also  feel 
that  your  individual  drama  is  very  small 
compared  with  this  great  drama?'* 

"Possibly,"  she  interrupted,  "but  it  is  my 
drama." 

"Ah,"  I  continued,  "do  you  not  feel  above 
all  that  you  have  no  right  to  think  in  that 
way,  no  right  to  detach  yourself  from  this 
great  collective  drama  in  which  we  ought  all 
to  take  part  to  the  end?  Examine  your  reso- 
lut  ion  carefully .  You  wished  to  give  your  hus- 
band a  little  joy,  because  he  was  unhappy?" 

"Have  I  not  given  it  him?"  she  asked. 

"  Be  it  so.  All  the  same,  imagine  the  firing 
line  stretching  from  Dunkerque  to  Belfort. 
Imagine  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  men 
who  are  there.  These  men  have  wives,  as 
you  have  a  husband.  They  have  children, 
mothers,  fathers.  They  have  a  future.  They 
are  giving  all  that.  They  are  suffering  in  their 
flesh.  They  sleep  in  the  mud,  under  shell- 


i66  The  Night  Cometh 

fire.  They  suffer  in  their  souls,  think  of  the 
absent  ones,  weep  in  secret.  And  so  they 
must  continue  to  do.  Remember  those  words 
uttered  by  one  of  our  wounded  men:  'To 
climb  up  the  ladder  out  of  the  trenches  is  to 
mount  the  scaffold.  *  Nevertheless,  they  climb 
it.  For  whom?  For  France.  But  France 
is  the  stim  total  of  French  lives.  It  includes 
ourselves,  I  repeat.  It  embraces  all  our 
countryside,  all  our  towns;  Paris  and  all  the 
houses  composing  Paris;  this  Clinigue  in 
the  Rue  St.  Guillaume  and  your  house  on  the 
Place  des  Etats-Unis.  These  men,  at  the 
price  of  their  blood,  defend  all  that.  Ask 
yourself  conscientiously,  are  they  accomplish- 
ing this  immense,  heroic  effort  for  the  sake 
of  a  love  adventure,  such  as  a  double  suicide 
between  these  four  walls?  We  are  destroy- 
ing that  effort,  each  his  own  share,  if  we  are 
not  better  because  of  it." 

"Were  you  a  hundred  times  right,"  she 
replied,  "I  have  given  my  word." 

She  had  been  unable  to  reply.  How  could 
I  help  thinking, — suppose  some  one  were  to 


Le  Gallic,  the  Instrument         167 

give  her  back  her  word,  would  she  not  be 
saved?  Who  was  that  "some  one"?  The 
very  person  who  exercised  his  influence  over 
her  and  whose  footsteps  I  heard  at  that  moment 
in  the  corridor.  Was  not  this  an  opportunity 
for  provoking  between  them  one  of  those 
explanations  in  which  the  presence  of  a  third 
party  serves  to  moderate,  if  one  may  say  so, 
and  even  to  prevent  the  intemperateness  of 
two  excited  minds  that  would  become  incensed 
with  each  other  were  the  interview  a  private 
one?  But  the  "Director"  had  no  sooner 
opened  the  door  than  I  judged  from  his  look 
that  he  was  in  one  of  his  bad  moods,  and  I 
heard  him  say  to  me : 

"Marsal,  I  have  reflected.  I  do  not  think 
it  necessary  to  wait  until  to-morrow ,  neither 
for  the  radiography — you  must  telephone  to 
Laugel — nor  for  that  little  exploration  for 
the  splinters.  As  to  the  operation,  I  am  still 
uncertain.  He's  such  a  wreck!  .  .  . 
Although  with  a  fellow  of  his  tranquil  disposi- 
tion .  .  .  He's  really  without  nerves.  Cere- 
bral life  has  not  been  awakened  in  him.  A 


i68  The  Night  Cometh 

quiet  and  monotonous  family  existence,  an 
ecclesiastical  college,  St.  Cyr,  and  the  bar- 
racks. Everything  by  rule.  No  initiative 
No  variety  of  impressions.  Men  of  that  type 
are  exactly  the  sort  to  preserve  survivals. 
This  one  offers  us  a  curious  example:  the 
atavistic  preservation  of  a  mode  of  thought, 
stereotyped  in  him,  and  which  he  adapts  to 
all  circumstances.  It  is  serving  him  to- 
day." 

1 '  But  if  it  serves  him,  mon  cher  maitre  ?  .  .  . " 
I  dared  to  object. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Ortegue,  "I  should  take 
good  care  not  to  touch  his  mental  apparatus. 
Besides,  I  should  have  my  work  cut  out. 
Impossible  to  bring  such  brains  as  those  to 
the  scientific  point  of  view,  which  is  essen- 
tially impersonal.  In  the  case  of  a  Le  Gallic, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  sole  question  is  the 
destiny  of  the  human  person.  That  is  the 
pivot  of  Religion.  The  pivot  of  Science  is 
the  conception  of  law  without  finality.  To 
science  we  are  but  epiphenomena.  To  a  Le 
Gallic,  the  thing  he  calls  his  soul  is  the  essential 


Le  Gallic,  the  Instrument         169 

reality.  No  means  of  coming  to  an 
agreement. " 

"Yet  the  human  creature  who  suffers  and 
dies  is  indeed  a  reality/*  said  Mme.  Ortegue. 

"  Those  are  moments  in  the  condition  of  its 
organs,'*  replied  Ortegue,  "and  these  very 
organs  are  only  a  series  of  physico-chemical 
facts,  carried  along  by  a  movement  which  has 
had  no  beginning  and  which  will  have  no 
end.  .  .  .  But  what  a  power  is  heredity, 
Marsal!  Look  at  my  wife.  She  knows  from 
her  father  and  from  me  that  there  are  two 
pictures  of  the  physical  and  moral  Universe 
—that  of  Religion  and  that  of  Science.  She 
is  aware  that  one  of  these  pictures  is  painted 
from  dreams,  the  other  from  nature,  and  that 
they  are  irreconcilable.  If  one  is  true,  the 
other  is  false.  She  knows  that,  and  behold! 
she  comes  once  more  across  a  relative  with 
whom  she  was  brought  up.  He  is  wounded. 
She  is  filled  with  emotion.  The  impressions 
of  her  childhood  are  revived.  Momentarily, 
her  personality  of  fifteen  years  ago  superposes 
itself  on  her  present  personality,  and  she  no 


170  The  Night  Cometh 

longer  sees  the  absurdity  of  the  ideas  of  this 
poor  fellow,  who  imagines  that  the  good  God 
—he  calls  him  good — led  him  by  the  hand  into 
that  communication  trench  to  receive  a  shell 
specially  manufactured  for  him  at  Essen! 
Confess,  mon  amie,"  he  was  now  addressing 
his  wife,  "confess  that  it  is  madness,  sheer 
madness!'* 

As  he  laughed  sarcastically,  when  uttering 
the  last  words,  I  was  stupefied  to  see  Mme. 
Ortegue  burst  into  sobs. 

"Come  now,  Catherine, "  he  cried,  "why  are 
you  crying?  .  .  .  Pardon  me,  Marsal,  for 
this  little  domestic  scene.  .  .  .  But  what  is 
the  matter?" 

"That  view  of  the  world  is  too  harsh, "  she 
said,  "that  is  all.  It  hurts  me  too  much/' 

"Ma  pauvre  enfant,  it  is  precisely  with  the 
object  of  making  it  a  little  less  hard  that  we 
are  in  this  hospital.  .  .  .  Marsal,  telephone 
then,  immediately,  to  Laugel  for  that  radio- 
graphy. That's  the  safest  thing  to  do." 


XVIII 

FAITH   AND   SNEERS 

WHAT  a  conversation !  And  how  signifi- 
cant !  It  seemed  to  me  that  there  was 
a  tremor  of  pity  in  Ortegue's  voice  when  he  said, 
"My  poor  child."  And  I  asked  myself,  what 
stage  had  the  husband  and  wife  really  reached 
in  their  terrible  project?  Had  they  spoken  of  it 
again?  When?  In  what  terms?  How  was 
one  to  know?  Two  facts  were  certain.  In 
reply  to  my  objections,  she  had  been  able, 
just  now,  to  make  but  one  reply — the  cry 
"my  promise.'*  He,  in  the  presence  of  her 
tears,  and  when  she  moaned  over  his  too  harsh 
view  of  the  world,  had  been  moved  to  pity. 
He  had  pitied  her  for  faltering,  for  giving  way 
to  nature.  That  was  his  way.  How  many 
times,  during  our  visits  through  the  hospital, 

have  I  heard  him  repeat,  at  the  bedside  of  the 

171 


172  The  Night  Cometh 

sleeping  wounded:  "How  touching  is  a  Suffer- 
ing human  being  when  he  simply  gives  way 
to  nature ! "  Would  not  the  sight  of  his  wife's 
fear  of  suicide  suffice — would  he  not  be  the 
first,  in  that  case,  to  protect  her  against  the 
temptation  which  he  himself  had  created  in 
her,  perhaps  unconsciously,  the  temptation 
to  commit  this  crime  in  a  horrible  delirium 
of  egoism  and  distress? 

Yes,  all  that  would  have  been  true  of  the  old 
Ortegue,  the  magnificent  worker  for  Science, 
the  triumphant  investigator  from  whom  there 
flowed — as  I  have  already  noted — a  never- 
failing,  inexhaustible  stream  of  altruism.  It 
sprang  from  his  temperament.  One  of  my 
hospital  friends  said  of  him:  "The  Director 
is  as  generous  as  wine."  That  phrase  con- 
jured up  the  Ortegue  of  yesterday.  The  man 
of  to-day,  this  emaciated,  dying  man  with 
fixed  look,  exhausted  by  the  drug  he  was 
taking,  at  times  somnolent,  at  others  angry 
and  suspicious,  had  nothing  in  common  with 
that  other  save  his  intellectual  lucidity,  which 
was  astonishingly  persistent.  The  affective 


Faith  and  Sneers  173 

parts  of  his  person  were  attacked  to  the  point 
of  being  depraved. 

He  refused  to  leave  the  hospital,  owing  to 
the  intense  obstinacy  of  his  pride,  which 
recoiled  before  that  supreme  step.  As  his 
autocar  fatigued  him  too  much,  he  now  slept 
in  the  Rue  St.  Guillaume.  Living  thus  with 
him  constantly,  enabled  me  to  ascertain  only 
too  well  the  moral  decomposition  of  his  being 
—more  painful  to  me,  his  pupil,  even  than  his 
physical  decomposition.  I  could  follow  its 
curve,  day  by  day,  and  I  immediately  noted 
that  Ernest  Le  Gallic's  arrival  at  the  Clinique 
had  coincided  with  a  sudden  fall  in  that  ever 
descending  line. 

I  had  a  first  proof  of  this  in  his  irony — he 
who  formerly  never  displayed  it  towards  a 
patient — when,  the  next  day,  I  brought  him 
the  result  of  the  radiography  and  my  explora- 
tion. 

"No  splinters,  the  wound  put  in  order — 
that's  good.  The  bullet,  as  I  thought,  in 
the  right  occipital  lobe.  We  must  wait.  Le 
Gallic,  with  a  brain  which  has  never  done  any 


174  The  Night  Cometh 

work  is  in  the  best  possible  condition.  Hey! 
Suppose  we  made  him  think,  do  you  believe 
that  that  would  astonish  him?" 

He  began  to  sneer,  just  as  he  had  done  in 
the  month  of  August,  at  the  time  of  the  officer's 
first  passing  visit.  It  was  then  but  the  ner- 
vous irritability  of  a  sick  man.  Now,  his 
grimace  betrayed  a  maliciousness  bordering 
on  hatred.  I  also  detected  a  look  of  hate 
in  his  eyes,  and  it  was  more  intense  the  second 
day.  We  were  proceeding  together  to  the 
Lily-of -the- Valley  Room.  Mme.  Ortegue  was 
standing  near  the  door.  She  came  towards 
us,  exclaiming: 

"Not  just  now.  Ernest  asked  to  see  the 
Abbe  Courmont.  I  have  brought  him.  .  .  ." 

"So,"  said  her  husband,  "when  I  was  look- 
ing for  you  just  now,  you  were  there?  ..." 

"Certainly.  .  .  ." 

Ortegue  added  nothing.  Standing  against 
the  high  corridor  window  he  began  with  visible 
impatience  to  drum  on  the  panes  with  his 
fingers. 

"Marsal,"  he  questioned,  "when  you  an- 


Faith  and  Sneers  175 

aesthetized  Le  Gallic  the  day  before  yesterday 
for  that  small  affair,  had  he  already  seen  the 
priest?  " 

"Yes,"  I  replied. 

"The  Abbe  must  be  amused!  "  he  resumed, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  Then,  jokingly: 
"The  confession  of  a  soldier  who  has  been  on 
campaign,  what  a  confession  it  must  be! " 

"Not  in  this  case,"  interrupted  Mme. 
Ortegue. 

"And  as  for  the  others,'*  I  risked  saying, 
"be  indulgent  to  them,  mon  cher  matire.  As 
you  said  so  well  one  day,  they  are  dying  for 
us." 

"  I  am  not  the  one  to  reproach  them  for  re- 
populating  France,"  sneered  Ortegue  again. 
"All  the  same,  our  Bayard  is  a  long  time  re- 
lating his  frolics.  Good,  it's  over." 

The  door  of  the  Lily-of-the- Valley  Room 
had  just  opened,  making  way  for  the  Chap- 
lain. The  Abbe  Courmont  was  a  man  of 
sixty,  small  statured  and  very  slender,  with 
a  wholly  fresh  and  wholly  pink  face,  lit  up 
by  blue  eyes  which  looked,  with  childish  can- 


The  Night  Cometh 

dour,  from  behind  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 
His  light  hair,  barely  turning  grey,  crowned, 
flame-like,  a  face  which  was  animated  with  an 
ever-exalted  enthusiasm.  A  kind  of  ecclesi- 
astical finesse  modified  the  candid  character 
of  this  physiognomy,  through  the  blinking  in 
the  corner  of  the  eyebrows  and  the  smiles 
which  gave  proof  of  a  very  perspicacious  mind, 
combined  with  an  immense  kindliness. 

He  was  known  amongst  the  Parisian  clergy 
for  his  liberalism,  which  had  cost  him  his 
curacy  at  Notre-Dame-des-Champs.  Ortegue 
had  accepted  him  at  his  Clinigue  for  that 
reason.  He  had  been  somewhat  surprised  to 
find  that  this  priest,  who  was  so  extremely 
tolerant,  possessed  also  the  faith  of  a  mission- 
ary. We  had  learnt  this  concerning  him — 
an  incident  truly  apostolic  in  its  charity :  that 
at  the  time  of  the  mobilization  he  had  stood 
in  front  of  one  of  our  large  railway  stations, 
talking  to  the  soldiers,  and  had  thus  found  the 
means  of  confessing  hundreds.  Ordinarily, 
Ortegue  looked  upon  him  with  amused  curi- 
osity as  a  man  of  another  century.  On  that 


Faith  and  Sneers  177 

day,  however,  there  was  a  flicker  of  malicious 
mockery  in  his  eyes  and  around  his  mouth, 
while  the  excellent  priest  was  saying,  with 
zealous  effusion: 

"Ah!  Madam,  your  cousin  Le  Gallic  is 
a  saint.  He  is  truly  the  soldier  according 
to  the  Gospel." 

"Oh,  oh!  Monsieur  1'Abbe!"  exclaimed 
Ortegue,  "say  that  our  cousin  is  a  hero. 
That  is  correct.  But  the  Gospel — applied  to 
someone  who  returns  from  the  battlefield !  I 
don't  often  read  that  book,  to  whose  most 
astonishing  success  in  the  publishing  world  I 
bow.  I  recollect,  however,  a  certain  Sermon 
on  the  Mount:  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers, 
for  they  shall  be  called  the  children  of  God.  Is 
not  that  the  text  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest,  "but  there  is  also 
the  Centurion,  a  lieutenant  like  M.  Le  Gallic, 
whose  servant  Our  Lord  healed  and  whom  he 
admired.  For  he  did  admire  him,  Monsieur 
le  Professeur.  He  declared : '  I  have  not  found 
so  great  faith,  no,  not  in  Israel. '  Note  that 
well.  He  said  to  the  rich,  Abandon  your 


13 


178  The  Night  Cometh 

riches.  He  did  not  say  to  the  Centurion, 
Abandon  your  regiment.  And  it  is  the  Centu- 
rion who  has  marked  the  mass  with  his :  Domine 
non  sum  dignus.  .  .  .  The  soldier's  words  are 
repeated  daily  at  the  altar  by  the  priest, 
before  the  Communion.  The  Army  has  the 
last  word  at  the  Holy  Sacrifice." 

"Behold  the  Gospel  militarized,  like  my 
Clinique"  replied  Ortegue.  "However,  if 
the  Centurion's  servant  had  got  in  his  head 
the  projectile  which  our  poor  cousin  is  moving 
about  in  his,  the  Quack  of  Nazareth  would 
have  wasted  his  time  ....  Without  offence, 
Monsieur  T Abbe.  You  have  done  your  duty ; 
we  are  going  to  do  ours.  Let  us  go  in  to  our 
Centurion.  Are  you  coming,  Catherine?  " 

"I  am  going  to  accompany  Monsieur  l'Abb£ 
a  few  steps, "  said  Mme.  Ortegue.  And  I 
distinctly  read  on  the  Professor's  lips  a  phrase 
which  he  did  not  permit  himself  to  pronounce : 
"You  are  not  going  to  apologize  for  me,  are 
you?" 

He  contented  himself,  however,  by  knitting 
his  eyebrows,  with  a  nervousness  that  his 


Faith  and  Sneers  179 

wife  doubtless  interpreted  as  an  order.  She 
hardly  took  the  time  to  exchange  two  or  three 
words  with  the  Chaplain,  and  was  with  us 
when  we  entered  the  room. 


XIX 

AN   INCIDENT   AT   THE   FRONT 

THE  wounded  man,  lying  on  his  back,  was 
engaged  in  writing  with  a  stylograph. 
As  on  the  preceding  day,  his  emaciated  yet 
handsome  face  wore  an  expression  of  extra- 
ordinary dignity,  and  a  pure  ardour  shone  in 
his  light  and  dreamy  eyes. 

"I've  caught  you,  Monsieur  1'Officier,"  said 
Ortegue.  "So,  man  of  discipline,  the  doctor's 
orders  count  for  nothing?  Answer  me,  yes 
or  no,  did  I  order  you  to  take  absolute  rest? 
And  there  you  are  at  work!  ..." 

"It  is  not  a  piece  of  work,"  Le  Gallic 
exclaimed.  "I  am  copying  a  few  thoughts 
for  an  Image  Mortuaire,  for  one  of  the 
friends  of  my  childhood.  You  will,  per- 
haps, remember  him,  Catherine,  the  man 

i  so 


An  Incident  at  the  Front         181 

who  managed  a  sailing-boat  so  well — Francois 
Delanoe?" 

" Remember  him,  I  should  think  I  did!  Is 
he  dead? " 

"Killed  by  my  side,  eighteen  days  ago;  he 
died  heroically.  I  wrote  a  little  account  of 
his  end  for  a  Rennes  newspaper.  He  had 
established  himself  in  that  city  as  a  lawyer. 
And  then  I  found  these  pages  too  shapeless, 
too  crude.  So  I  did  not  send  them." 

"You  have  them  there ?"  Mme.  Ortegue 
asked. 

"Yes,"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh!  they  don't 
amount  to  much!" 

He  withdrew  a  few  sheets  from  a  portfolio 
lying  on  his  bed  between  a  New  Testament 
and  a  prayer-book. 

"You  can  even  read  it  aloud,"  he  added, 
handing  over  the  papers.  "This  narrative 
will  show  you,  Cousin — and  you  also,  Dr. 
Marsal,  what  our  men  are  like.  We  must 
love  them,  you  see.  Theirs  is  a  hard  task, 
as  you  will  hear,  and  how  heartily  they  shoul- 
der it !  I  heard  one  of  them,  in  the  trenches, 


182  The  Night  Cometh 

say  to  another:  'If  I  go  under  fire  again,  I 
shall  win  the  cross  of  honour. '  '  Or  a  cross  of 
wood, '  said  the  other.  And  the  first  speaker 
responded:  'That's  the  same  thing/  But 
read,  Catherine. " 

Mme.  Ortegue  unfolded  the  sheets  and 
began  to  read.  I  do  not  believe  that  I  have 
experienced,  during  the  whole  of  this  war,  a 
more  thrilling  sensation  than  that  of  the 
savage  attack  which  was  evoked  in  the  pres- 
ence of  one  of  the  combatants,  on  the  eve, 
alas!  of  death,  by  that  sweet  trembling 
woman's  voice.  Brilliantly  and  distinctly 
her  voice  enunciated  the  technical  terms,  em- 
ployed quite  naturally  by  the  officer,  because 
the  picture  of  the  fight — brutal  and  complete 
— was  revived  in  him.  She  grew  tender, 
choking  down  her  emotion,  on  reaching 
passages  that  were  too  painful.  But  here 
is  the  story,  with  the  title  which  Le  Gallic 
had  written  at  the  top,  in  his  big  manly  hand — 
that  of  one  who  goes  straight  ahead. 


An  Incident  at  the  Front         183 

FRANCOIS  DELANOE 

MY    TESTIMONY 

He  died  heroically.  He  was  the  comrade 
of  my  childhood,  my  brother,  and  until  only 
a  week  ago,  my  sergeant.  Poor  fellow ! 

Ah!  that  magnificent  attack!  Everything 
had  been  minutely  prepared. 

The  watches  of  the  chiefs  of  the  section 
had  been  set  by  each  other.  We  were  to 
leave  the  trenches  at  five  in  the  morning 
without  the  discharge  of  a  signal  rocket.  No 
knapsacks  for  the  men.  Two  hundred  cart- 
ridges for  each.  In  our  nose-bags,  in  addition 
to  a  tin  of  bully  beef  and  a  bit  of  bread,  five 
grenades.  Flasks  full  of  water  and  coffee. 
Tied  on  our  backs,  five  empty  sand-bags,  for 
blocking  the  communication  trenches  when 
conquered. 

Before  the  departure,  everyone  was  to  cut 
a  step  with  the  tool  fixed  to  his  belt  in  order 
to  jump  all  the  quicker  over  the  parapet, 
Afterwards,  not  a  gun  shot.  Everything  at 
the  point  of  the  bayonet.  On  reaching  the 


184  The  Night  Cometh 

enemy,  we  were  to  be  at  them  with  hand- 
grenades  and  daggers. 

At  ten  minutes  to  five,  I  said:  "Look  to 
your  things.  Is  everything  ready?  Atten- 
tion!" 

Then,  once  more,  I  felt  that  sinking  feeling, 
that  moist  warmth  in  all  my  limbs  which  is 
not  a  sign  of  fear,  but  which  no  human  force 
can  master.  No  human  force,  but  divine 
strength!  Delanoe — he  and  I  had  made  our 
communion  the  night  before — was  by  my  side, 
and  he  said  to  me  in  a  low  voice : 

"  I  shall  be  killed  to-day;  of  that  I  am  sure.'* 

' '  Are  you  frightened  ?  "  I  exclaimed  laugh- 
ingly. 

"No.  I  have  never  known  the  value  of 
life  better.  It  is  so  beautiful  when  one  can 
give  it  in  a  holy  cause!  And  never  has  it 
been  easier  for  me  to  die,  because  I  have  never 
felt  God  so  near." 

While  he  was  speaking  the  pale  and  slowly 
coming  light  of  day  gave  him  a  phantasmal 
appearance,  the  beauty  of  an  apparition.  That 
light  drove  before  it,  around  us,  a  heavy  and 


An  Incident  at  the  Front         185 

wet  fog,  which  seemed  to  proceed,  like  a 
shroud,  from  the  cubes  and  pickets  of  our 
barbed-wire  entanglement.  During  the  night 
the  sappers  had  made  passages  in  it  which  I 
could  see  distinctly. 

Delanoe  suddenly  said  to  me : 
"  Listen,  that  is  one  of  our  home  birds." 
I  heard  a  lark  saluting  the  awakening  of 
that  cold  morning  of  early  autumn. 

Everything  appeared  grey  and  distant  to 
me.  I  could  perceive  nothing  of  our  goal. 
At  three  hundred  yards,  I  guessed  the  loca- 
tion of  their  trenches  from  the  black  and 
gaping  eyes  on  a  level  with  the  ground .  Loop- 
holes, close  together  and  well-guarded,  were 
cut  in  the  marly  embankment.  The  day 
before,  I  had  made  a  thorough  inspection  of 
the  ground,  through  my  glasses.  I  knew  the 
exact  position  of  the  four  machine-guns  which 
flanked  the  defences  of  the  enemy  and  made 
approach  to  the  curtains  and  lines  of  retreat 
almost  impossible. 

If,  unfortunately,  our  big  gtin  had  failed, 
at  the  hour  of  the  attack,  to  contribute  its 


i86  The  Night  Cometh 

maximum  of  work,  if  their  barbed-wire  en- 
tanglements were  still  intact,  the  result  was 
a  mathematical  certainty:  we  should  all  be 
mowed  down. 

Delanoe  knew  that,  as  well  as  I  did.  He 
also  said: 

"Three  hundred  metres  at  the  point  of  the 
bayonet  is  an  absurdity.  But  look ! " 

He  pointed  out  to  me,  about  two  hundred 
yards  away,  a  barely  visible  depression  in  the 
ground,  which  provided  the  necessary  angle 
for  sheltering  the  men  when  lying  down.  It 
was  a  possible  salvation,  allowing  time  to  let 
the  second  line  of  reinforcements  come  up 
to  us  before  we  should  be  required  to  set 
off  again!  He  added,  "We  stand  a  fair 
chance." 

Five  minutes  to  five:  "Fix  bayonets!" 
There  was  a  long  rustling  of  steel,  accom- 
panied by  rapid  flashes.     The  men  gripped 
their  rifles.     Delanoe  and  I  looked  in  their 
faces. 

Ah!  brothers  of  two  months  of  suffering 


An  Incident  at  the  Front         187 

and  hope, — humble  brothers  whom  we  are 
about  to  precipitate,  by  a  gesture,  into  the 
furnace,  how  we  should  like  to  kiss  your  poor 
sunburnt,  hollow  faces ! 

Which  of  those,  full  of  ardour  and  youth, 
are  about  to  fall? 

Just  at  that  minute,  and  as  though  a  cur- 
rent had  united  our  thoughts,  I  felt  his  hand 
take  mine.  "Farewell,  Ernest."  "Au  revoir, 
Franc, ois,"  I  replied.  But  again,  and  very 
seriously,  he  said:  " Farewell." 

Five  o'clock!  five  o'clock!  "Now,  boys, 
forward  for  the  sake  of  France! " 

At  a  single  bound  every  kepi,  every  bayonet, 
every  man  was  out  of  the  dark  trench.  The 
serried  line  was  in  movement,  trampling  down 
the  tall  grass. 

They  have  seen  us ! 

Pop!  pop!  pop!  .  .  .  The  machine-guns 
spluttered  forth  incessantly.  The  bullets 
met  us  full  in  the  face. 

"Quicker!"  Oh!  the  dull  sound  of  pierced 
flesh  and  shattered  bones,  the  stifled  cry  and 


1 88  The  Night  Cometh 

the  last  oath  of  your  neighbour  who  rolls  to 
the  ground  cursing  the  Boche! 

' '  Quicker ! ' '  Their  curtain  fire  is  now  jerky 
and  unsteady.  Shrapnel  lash  us  in  the  face, 
burst  within  three  yards  of  our  heads. 
"Quicker,  boys,  we  shall  have  them." 

" Take  cover! "  It  was  the  shelter,  for  two 
minutes, — the  blessed  ridge.  Flat  on  our  stom- 
achs, silent  and  breathless,  we  recover  our  wind. 

"Delanoe?  .  .  ." 

Ah!  Delanoe  is  bleeding.  He  is  pale 
Blood  pours  from  his  cheek  on  to  his  light- 
coloured  capote. 

"Hit?" 

"Jaw  pierced.     It's  nothing." 

"Return  to  the  rear  and  have  it  dressed." 

"To  the  rear?    You're  joking.     Never." 

"You  must  go.  As  your  lieutenant,  I  order 
you." 

' '  And  I,  as  your  friend,  remain  by  your  side." 

Already !  Here  comes  the  line  of  reinforce- 
ments, which  reach  us  and  spread  out.  For 
the  second  time  I  rise  and  shout  to  my  men : 


An  Incident  at  the  Front         189 

"  Up,  lads !     Cheerily !  forward ! " 

Then  comes  the  rush,  the  advance  amidst 
wild  yells.  A  hundred  yards  at  full  speed.  A 
few  seconds.  ' '  Forward !  Forward ! "  With 
lowered  heads,  thumping  hearts,  clenched 
teeth,  and  stumbling,  we  are  carried  towards 
the  white  line,  which  I  can  now  see  and  which 
belches  forth  death  incessantly.  "Forward! 
.  .  .  Forward!  .  .  .  Forward!"  And  then 
comes  the  shock  of  bodies  which  jump,  cast 
themselves  into  an  abyss,  fall  to  with  the  points 
of  their  weapons  in  the  flesh  of  others,  who, 
crushed,  beseech  or  flee  along  the  trench. 
Then  comes  the  horrible  hand-to-hand 
struggle,  knife  in  hand,  and  wounded  men 
locked  in  deadly  embrace. 

"Barrier  to  the  left,  quick,  quick!  .  .  ." 

"Kamerad!    Kamerad !  .  .  ." 

"Assassins!  Cowards!  Ruffians!  Lou  vain! 
Termonde!  .  .  .  The  sand-bags!  The  loop- 
holes! .  .  .  The  loop-holes!  .  .  .  Vive  la 
France!  .  .  ." 

The  resplendent  sun — God's  sun — the  sun 


The  Night  Cometh 

of  the  great  days  of  peace  and  labour  and 
Christianity,  rose  in  the  heavens.  It  was  as 
though  it  shone  for  our  victory.  Every- 
where there  was  silence,  that  terrible  silence 
which  comes  afterwards,  and  which  nevermore 
will  be  broken  by  that  ringing  " Present!"  of 
so  many  of  our  men  who  have  fallen  on  the 
plain.  Anguish-stricken  and  with  a  lump 
rising  in  my  throat,  I  called  out:  "  Delanoe! 
Delanoe!  Delanoe!  .  .  .  " 

I  found  him  with  his  face  to  the  earth. 
Death  had  wreaked  itself  on  his  poor  proud 
soldier's  face.  There,  again — this  time  by  a 
grenade — he  had  been  struck,  mutilated  and 
killed,  but  without  touching  the  string  of  his 
scapulary,  and  upon  his  heart  there  lay  the 
Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus.  Cor  Jesu,  spes  in  te 
morientium,  miserere  nobis. 

"I  had  still  another  reason  for  not  publish- 
ing that,"  said  Le  Gallic,  when  his  cousin  had 
handed  back  to  him  the  sheets.  "I  did  not 
want  the  mother  to  know  of  the  disfigurement 
of  this  son  whom  she  loved  so  dearly.  She  it 


An  Incident  at  the  Front        191 

is  who  has  entrusted  me  with  the  little  task 
for  which  you  reproach  me,  Cousin.  But  I 
have  finished  it.  Mme.  Delanoe  wishes  to 
send  this  Memento  to  all  the  men  of  her  son's 
section.  Now  that  you  know  how  he  died, 
Catherine,  you  must  tell  me  if  the  words  I 
have  chosen  appear  to  you  suitable.  .  .  ." 

He  handed  Mme.  Ortegue  another — a  single 
sheet.  She  read  it,  this  time  in  silence. 
When  about  to  hand  it  back  to  the  wounded 
man,  Ortegue  intervened : 

"  May  the  unbeliever  see  it?  " 

"Naturally,"  said  the  officer,  "and  Dr. 
Mar  sal  also.'* 

I  have  them  before  me  at  this  very  moment, 
those  texts  which  I  copied  out  the  same  even- 
ing. I  transcribe  them  such  as  they  are.  I 
too,  like  Le  Gallic,  am  writing  my  testimony. 
I  am  supplying  a  document  regarding  two 
ways  of  interpreting  the  problem  of  death. 
These  texts  chosen  by  the  Breton  officer  for 
the  Image  Mortuaire  of  his  companion-in-arms 
represent,  better  than  any  commentary,  one 
of  these  two  ways.  Placed  side  by  side  with 


192  The  Night  Cometh 

this  battle  story,  they  illumine  it  and  are  illu- 
mined by  it.  We  have  here,  it  seems  to  me, 
gathered  into  a  revelatory  epitome,  the  whole 
psychology  of  the  Delanoes  and  Le  Gallics. 
For  these  "  centurions  of  the  Gospel,"  as  the 
priest  called  them,  are  legion  in  our  army,  and 
Le  Gallic  was  so  sincere  that  he  realized  in 
person  the  perfect  type  of  a  certain  class  of 
men,  who  are  all  will-power  in  action,  all  faith 
in  prayer;  and  action  leads  them  to  prayer, 
just  as  prayer  leads  them  to  action.  The  sym- 
bol of  this  state  of  mind  is  the  sword,  the  instru- 
ment of  battle,  when  you  take  it  by  the  hilt. 
At  rest  and  planted  in  the  earth,  it  is  the  cross. 
Are  such  individuals,  as  Ortegue  contended, 
mere  examples  of  atavism?  How  is  it,  then, 
that  the  country,  in  the  hour  of  supreme  dan- 
ger, finds  them  to  be  exactly  the  workers  it 
requires?  How  is  it  that  their  energies  accord 
with  the  most  vital  needs  of  the  Society  of 
which  they  are  members?  How  is  it  that 
their  way  of  feeling  and  thinking  is  that  which 
leads  to  the  greatest  output  from  the  national 
organism? 


An  Incident  at  the  Front         193 

At  the  top  of  his  project  for  the  Image  Mor- 
tuaire,  Le  Gallic  had  traced  a  cross  with  the 
legendary  device :  In  hoc  signo  .  .  .  ;  then  the 
following  quotations,  each  with  its  source : 

Moriamur  in  simplicitate  nostrd. 

The  Maccabees. 

For  I  am  a  man  under  authority,  having 
soldiers  under  me :  and  I  say  to  this  man,  Go, 
and  he  goeth ;  and  to  another,  Come,  and  he 
cometh;  and  to  my  servant,  Do  this,  and  he 
doeth  it. 

St.  Matthew  viii.,  9. 

But  he  was  wounded  for  our  transgressions, 
he  was  bruised  for  our  iniquities :  the  chastise- 
ment of  our  peace  was  upon  him,  and  with 
his  stripes  we  are  healed. 

Isaiah  liii.,  5. 

Grant,  O  God  of  armies,  that  what  appears 
mean  to  other  men  I  may  find  beautiful.  Ah ! 
if  truly  You  are  there,  in  that  consecrated 

13 


194  The  Night  Cometh 

wafer,  deign  to  see  that  I  am  not  wicked,  and 
that  I  also  am  worthy  of  giving  my  life  for  an 
idea. 

From  "  The  Call  to  Arms,"  the 
book  of  my  friend,  Lieutenant 
Ernest  Psichari,  Kenan's  grand- 
son, killed  in  action,  with  his 
rosary  on  his  arm. 

Blessed  be  he  who  inscribed  Hope  on  the 
tomb. 

Written  in   a  prayer-book  in  the 
i    handwriting  of  Taine's  daughter. 

For  as  the  sufferings  of  Christ  abound  in  us, 
so  our  consolation  also  aboundeth  by  Christ. 

//.  Corinthians  i.,  5. 

Jesus  Christ  completes  His  passion  in  us. 

Pascal. 


"I've   read    somewhere    a    report   of  the 
autopsy  on  Pascal's  brain,"  said  Ortegue,  on 


An  Incident  at  the  Front         195 

handing  me  the  Memento;  "I  must  find  it 
for  you,  Ernest.  I  confess,  however,  my 
inability  to  see  the  connection  between  the 
scenes  of  carnage, — necessary,  I  admit,  coura- 
geous, I  also  admit,  which  you  have  described, 
but  ferocious,  you  will  agree, — and  these 
sentences  of  a  transcendental  idealism/' 

"There  is  a  connection,  however,"  said  Le 
Gallic. 

"And  what  may  it  be?" 

"Sacrifice." 

"And  then,"  exclaimed  Ortegue  without 
replying,  "if  Mme.  Ortegue  finds  a  little  con- 
solation in  this  reading,  I've  no  objection. 
On  the  other  hand,  I've  a  good  deal  of  objec- 
tion to  your  reading  old  books  in  search  of 
these  or  other  quotations.  What  I  want  is 
absolute  rest  and  immobility  for  your  head. 
For  you  must  suffer  cruelly,  when  writing, 
with  a  lesion  in  a  whole  bunch  of  nerves  in 
your  occipital  region.  Have  they  given  you 
your  injection  of  morphia  this  morning,  and 
what  was  the  dose?" 

"He  refused  it,"  said  Mme.  Ortegue. 


196  The  Night  Cometh 

"What!  refused  it?"  exclaimed  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"Yes,"  replied  Le  Gallic.  "The  suffering 
is  great,  but  supportable.  Even  if  it  were 
not,  I  should  support  it,  rather  than  suppress 
it.  Do  you  recollect,  Cousin,  what  I  said  to 
you  on  the  occasion  of  my  passing  visit  here 
— that  one  must  pay  for  oneself  and,  if  one 
can,  for  others?  That  is  why  I  try  to  have 
the  strength  to  suffer,  though  it  were  only 
for  those  who  do  not  possess  that  fortitude." 

Ortegue's  dark  face  suddenly  contracted. 

"To  thorn  are  you  referring?"  he  exclaimed 
in  a  sharp  tone. 

"To  no  one  in  particular." 

"Yes,  you  are  referring  to  me — to  me," 
resumed  Ortegue  violently.  "And  owing  to 
someone  having  related  to  you  .  .  .  But  who 
has  been  speaking  to  you  here  ? ' '  He  was  seized 
with  a  veritable  fit  of  anger.  Walking  towards 
me.  .  .  .  "Was  it  you,  Marsal?"  But  be- 
fore I  could  even  raise  my  hand  to  make  a 
gesture  of  denial,  he  said:  "No.  You  are  a 
devoted  friend,  you  are."  Then,  turning 


An  Incident  at  the  Front         197 

towards  his  wife:  "It  was  you,  Catherine.  It 
was  you.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  remain  a 
moment  longer  in  this  room.  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  return.  Do  you  hear,  I  forbid  you? 
Go  out !  I  tell  you  to  go  out ! " 


XX 

LE  GALLIC'S  REQUEST 

MME.  ORTEGUE  obeyed,  without  a 
word  or  a  gesture.  All  three  of  us 
remained  as  it  were  stupefied  by  his  inex- 
cusable outburst,  the  shame  of  which  was 
already  felt  by  the  one  who  was  responsible 
for  it.  He  had  sat  down,  still  trembling  all 
over,  and  kept  his  eyes  off  us.  I  feared  that 
Le  Gallic  might  also  give  way  to  some  act  of 
violence.  He  had  become  very  red,  then  very 
pale,  like  a  man  agitated  by  a  fit  of  indigna- 
tion, immediately  suppressed.  Ortegue  was 
the  first  to  break  this  painful  silence  by  say- 
ing to  the  wounded  man,  simply,  as  though 
he  had  come  into  the  room  merely  for  a 
medical  purpose: 

"Will  you  let  me  feel  your  pulse,  my  dear 

Ernest?" 

198 


Le  Gallic's  Request  199 

He  had  taken  off  his  glove.  His  fingers, 
blackened  by  jaundice,  rested  on  the  young 
man's  white  wrist. 

"No  weakening, "  he  continued,  "no  irre- 
gularity. That  is  a  good  sign.  .  .  .  Still 
without  dizziness,  lying  in  bed?  Good  again. 
.  .  .  You  can  hear  me  well?  Yes.  .  .  .  No 
feeling  of  oppression?  No  sickness?  .  .  ." 

All  these  questions  indicated  a  secret  fear 
that  a  bulbar  syndrome  might  suddenly  seri- 
ously compromise  a  situation  which,  though 
apparently  calm,  was  charged  with  redoubt- 
able possibilities. 

"  Condition  stationary, "  he  concluded,  turn- 
ing towards  me  and  drawing  on  his  glove, 
"therefore  favourable.  My  prognostic  re- 
mains the  same:  he  has  every  chance  of  re- 
covering. Rest.  More  rest.  And  still  more 
rest." 

He  had  arisen  and  appeared  to  hesitate  for 
a  moment.  Then,  biting  his  moustache,  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  which  was  no  longer  sup- 
ported by  the  affirmative  and  authoritative 
tone  of  the  Director  laying  down  his  opinion: 


200  The  Night  Cometh 

"Certain  silences  are  lessons,  Ernest.  I 
have  understood  yours.  I  am  very  ill,  as  you 
know,  and  I  have  not  always  control  over  my 
nerves.  ...  It  is  true,  I  take  morphia,  and 
I  do  not  wish  to  suffer.  With  my  ideas,  I  am 
right,  as  you,  with  yours,  are  right  in  wishing 
to  suffer.  To  a  monist  like  myself,  suffering 
is  a  useless  horror.  I  am  not  frightened  of  it. 
I  fear  nothing.  I  find  it  absurd,  that  is  all. 
That  being  stated,  did  my  wife  tell  you  that 
I  took  morphia,  answer  me,  yes  or  no! " 

" Never, "  replied  Le  Gallic.  "I  give  you 
my  word/' 

"Knowing  her,  I  ought  to  have  been  certain 
of  it,"  continued  Ortegue.  "  I  have  done  her 
an  injustice,  her  of  all  people,"  he  repeated 
desperately.  "There  are  times  when  I'm  a 
poor  sort  of  man,  Ernest,  a  very  poor  sort  of 
man.  I  had  no  need  of  this  proof  to  know 
that  our  mind  is  merely  the  expression  of  our 
organic  condition.  I  have  just  had  a  verit- 
able psychical  raptus.  It  is  over.  Friend,  be 
kind  to  me.  Permit  your  cousin  to  be  one  of 
your  nurses.  I  beg  you." 


Le  Gallic's  Request  201 

" Cousin,**  exclaimed  Le  Gallic,  "will  you 
allow  me  to  be  absolutely  frank  with  you?  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Ortegue.  I  saw  from 
the  trembling  of  his  mouth  that  his  recent 
irritation  was  returning. 

"Well/*  replied  the  officer,  in  the  same 
reflective  and  scrupulous  tone,  "I  beg  you 
not  to  insist.  Do  not  read  into  my  prayer 
anything  more  than  this — an  earnest  desire 
that  my  last  days  may  be  as  it  were  a  retreat, 
that  they  may  be  undisturbed  by  needless 
anxieties.  For  these,  I  feel,  are  my  last  days, 
and  you  yourself  .  .  ." — here  he  interrupted 
Ortegue's  denial — "have  just  proved  to  me, 
by  your  questions,  how  much  you  are  still 
hesitating  in  your  diagnosis.  In  any  case" — 
this  in  answer  to  a  fresh  denial—  "it  is  not 
impossible  that  these  may  be  my  last  days. 
That  is  sufficient  to  make  me  desire  to  employ 
every  minute  in  preparing  myself.  The  Fiat 
is  still  only  on  my  lips.  It  has  not  been  com- 
pletely uttered  in  my  heart.  I  require  peace. 

"At  the  present  moment,  you  present  to 
me  the  noble  spectacle  of  a  man  who,  having 


202  The  Night  Cometh 

given  way  to  a  fit  of  impatience  quite  explain- 
able, punishes  himself  by  an  act  of  generosity. 
I  have  always  observed,  during  my  life,  that 
these  heavenward  movements,  after  a  weak- 
ness, are,  from  the  small  to  the  great,  charac- 
teristic of  fine  natures.  But  why  were  you 
impatient  and  irritated?  Because,  my  cousin 
and  I,  being  more  than  relatives,  lifelong 
friends,  you  supposed  she  might  have  informed 
me  of  the  trials  through  which  you  are  passing 
together.  That  susceptibility  of  the  heart 
will  return.  It  is  so  natural!  In  any  case, 
again,  it  may  return.  That  is  a  sufficient 
reason  for  not  desiring  to  have  my  cousin  as 
a  nurse.  At  any  rate  let  us  wait" — Ortegue 
was  visibly  getting  more  and  more  nervous — 
"let  us  wait  until  to-morrow.  We  will  speak 
about  it  more  calmly  then.  There  is  no 
hurry." 

"  Ernest,  you  make  me  painfully  aware  of 
the  fact  that  I  have  not  been  myself,"  said 
Ortegue.  "For  a  Christian,  you  are  some- 
what lacking  in  charity." 

With  these  words  he  went   away.     I  was 


Le  Gallic's  Request  203 

about  to  follow  him,  when  the  wounded  man 
restrained  me,  saying: 

"Do  me  a  service,  Dr.  Marsal.  I  know 
that  M.  TAbbe  Courmont  is  going  out  this 
afternoon.  If  he  has  not  yet  left  the  hospital, 
I  should  like  to  see  him  again  before  he  de- 
parts. By  sending  him  to  me,  you  will  greatly 
oblige  me. 


XXI 

A   FAR-OFF   IDYLL 

A  NURSE  with  whom  I  came  face  to  face 
on  the  staircase  told  me  that  she  had 
just  met  the  Chaplain  in  the  courtyard.  I 
hastened  on.  He  had  already  passed  the 
entrance.  I  only  overtook  him  at  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  Saint  Guillaume  and  the  Ruede 
Grenelle.  On  seeing  me  coming  towards  him 
with  bare  head  and  in  my  hospital  blouse, 
the  poor  Abbe  made  a  gesture  of  dismay. 

"Is  the  lieutenant  worse?"  he  asked,  thus 
proving  how  great  an  interest  he  took  in  his 
"Centurion." 

"No,"  I  replied,  "but  he  wishes  to  see  you." 
And  I  laid  stress  on  the  wounded  man's  almost 
anxious  insistence,  without  relating,  of  course, 
the  painful  episode  which  had  preceded  and, 

as  I  comprehended,  provoked  it. 

204 


A  Far-Off  Idyll  205 

"I'll  go,"  said  the  priest,  simply.  He  now 
opposed  to  my  curiosity  that  atonic  face  which 
I  knew  so  well — that  which  we  doctors  assume 
at  consultations.  Whilst  accompanying  him, 
he  asked  me  unexpectedly: 

"Do  you  think,  Doctor,  that  the  lieutenant 
might  be  taken,  without  danger,  to  another 
hospital?  I  mean  to  say,  for  instance,  to  the 
country  ?" 

"Certainly  not,  Monsieur  1'Abbe.  The 
Professor  would  never  permit  it.  But  why?  " 

"Because,  holding  such  different  convic- 
tions, and  nervous  as  M.  Ortegue  is,  I  fear 
a  conflict  between  them.  M.  Le  Gallic  is  a 
great  soldier.  Notwithstanding  that,  or  be- 
cause of  that,  perhaps,  he  possesses  a  very 
sensitive  heart!" 

With  these  words,  the  meaning  of  which 
was  certainly  vague,  he  left  me.  I  saw  in 
them  an  indication,  as  well  as  in  the  sugges- 
tion of  a  transfer,  that  the  stay  at  the  Clinigue 
was  regarded  by  the  confessor — and  also, 
doubtless,  by  the  young  man  himself — not 
without  anxiety.  Did  the  prospect  of  a  clash 


206  The  Night  Cometh 

of  ideas  with  the  husband  of  his  cousin  justify 
this  fear  on  the  officer 's  part,  and  especially 
its  communication  to  the  priest?  Why  had 
he  summoned  him  now,  immediately  after 
Ortegue's  offer?  His  ardent  piety  must  have 
made  him  accessible  to  all  scruples.  There 
suddenly  rose  before  my  mind's  eye  the  serious 
expression  on  his  face  when  listening  to  that 
offer.  I  heard  the  almost  imploring  tone 
with  which  he  spoke  of  the  calm  necessary 
during  his  last  days.  No,  the  believer  did 
not  fear  a  clash  of  ideas  with  the  atheist.  He 
was  in  fear  of  his  own  heart.  I  also  recalled 
a  "certain  Sermon  on  the  Mount,"  as  Ortegue 
put  it.  I  had  myself  read  over  and  over  again 
those  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  chapters  of  the 
Gospel  according  to  St.  Matthew,  the  classic 
piece  of  that  "most  astonishing  success  in  the 
publishing  world,"  to  quote  once  more  the 
ironical  Ortegue.  A  verse,  the  profound  psy- 
chology of  wnich  I  have  always  admired — 
the  flash  of  light  thrown  on  the  relations  be- 
tween thought  and  action — came  back  to  me: 
"But  I  say  unto  you,  That  whosoever  looketh 


A  Far-Off  Idyll  207 

on  a  woman  to  lust  after  her  hath  committed 
adultery  with  her  already  in  his  heart/' 

"  Behold  the  true  motive.     He  loves  her." 

These  words  had  no  sooner  been  expressed 
in  my  mind  than  they  brought  conviction, 
and  while  going  from  room  to  room — it  was 
in  the  afternoon — to  ascertain  whether  the 
orders  given  in  the  morning  had  been  carried 
out,  my  imagination  wandered  far  away  in- 
deed from  the  sad  sights  of  the  hospital.  It 
carried  me  to  Treguier,  that  ancient  and  pious 
town,  ennobled  by  its  cathedral,  and  to  that 
Breton  country-side  where  Ernest  Le  Gallic 
and  Catherine  Malfan-Trevis  had  wandered 
together  at  the  age  of  fifteen. 

My  old  hypotheses  regarding  the  past  of 
the  two  cousins  again  took  shape.  They 
became  clearer.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  an 
innocent  and  far-off  idyll,  transformed  in  her 
case  into  a  dim  recollection,  but  which  in  his 
had  become  a  passion. 

At  fifteen,  a  youth  and  a  maiden  are  truly 
of  the  same  age.  They  love  each  other  or 
they  think  they  love  each  other.  At  twenty, 


208  The  Night  Cometh 

this  parity  of  age  exists  only  as  regards  dates. 
The  young  woman  who  can  marry,  found  a 
home,  become  a  mother,  has  reached  a  more 
advanced  stage  of  life  than  the  belated  one 
of  the  young  man  who  has  just  finished  his 
studies  and  whose  career  is  not  yet  begun. 
The  outlined  idyll  appears  to  the  young  wo- 
man as  child's  play.  She  is  now  attracted 
towards  the  man  who  can  be  her  support, 
towards  the  prestige  of  strength  in  the  fulness 
of  its  maturity.  She  forgets  the  naive  romance 
wholly  made  up  of  dreams — the  romance  in 
which  no  word  of  love  was  uttered  and  the 
only  episodes  of  which  were  quickened  heart- 
throbs, over-protracted  walks,  proffered  and 
accepted  nosegays,  a  dress  put  on  more  often 
than  another  because  it  was  becoming.  When 
she  thinks  of  those  mild  emotions,  the  young 
woman  smiles  and  fails  to  recognize  them  as 
her  own. 

But  the  young  man  does  not  forget  so 
quickly,  and  if  he  is  a  Le  Gallic,  one  of  those 
steadfast  and  dreamy  Bretons,  timid  and 
meditative,  in  whom  time  engraves  impres- 


A  Far-Off  Idyll  209 

sions,  instead  of  effacing  them,  he  continues 
to  love  the  little  betrothed  of  his  fifteenth 
year,  with  a  painful  and  increasing  passion. 
It  is  a  wound  which  bleeds  within  him  and 
which  he  conceals  above  all  from  her  who  has 
caused  it.  He  would  be  angry  with  himself 
if  he  were  to  utter  a  word  of  reproach  or  com- 
plaint, and  he  takes  a  dolorous  pleasure  in 
remaining  all  the  more  faithful  the  more  he 
has  been  misunderstood. 

If  she  and  he  were  not  of  the  same  family, 
absence  would  cure  him,  but  he  sees  her  con- 
stantly. If  he  gave  way,  like  his  companions, 
to  the  temptations  of  sensual  pleasure, 
this  romantic  flower  would  shrivel  up  in  his 
case  as  in  theirs,  but  he  is  a  Le  Gallic  and 
devout.  His  purity  nourishes  his  amorous 
fervour.  She  whom  he  loves  is  married.  He 
excuses  himself  for  continuing  to  cherish  her 
only  on  condition  that  he  denies  himself  the 
most  insignificant  liberties.  How  clear  every- 
thing thus  became  in  Le  Gallic's  conduct, 
and  everything,  at  the  same  time,  in  Ortegue's 
attitude !  When  one  loves  a  wife  as  ardently 


210  The  Night  Cometh 

as  Ortegue  loved  his,  one  has  a  sort  of  divina- 
tion of  the  feelings  she  inspires.  Ortegue 
knew  by  intuition  Le  Gallic's  secret,  which  up 
to  now  was  unknown  to  Mme.  Ortegue.  I 
comprehended  that  also — that  this  woman 
had  always  looked  upon  her  cousin  rather  as 
a  child  and  with  a  child's  simple  mind.  The 
wife  of  a  distinguished  scientist,  and  the  daugh- 
ter of  another,  she  had  never  perceived  what 
I  had  glimpsed  at  the  time  of  the  officer's 
first  visit  to  the  Clinique,  what  I  had  just 
established  at  the  wounded  man's  bedside: 
the  extraordinary  amplitude  of  the  inner  life 
given  him  by  his  religious  faith.  Was  she 
beginning  to  make  this  discovery  in  the  pres- 
ence of  such  heroism,  such  resignation,  such 
charity,  such  certainty?  Evidently  Ortegue 
feared  it.  His  fit  of  jealousy  was  explained 
then,  and  also  the  wounded  man's  desire, 
that  he  should  be  spared  that  supreme  trial. 
What  a  temptation,  and  how  strong,  to  feel 
oneself,  at  last,  known,  understood,  perhaps 
loved! 


XXII 

THE   SOURCE   OF   STRENGTH 

THIS  was  one  of  those  psychological  con- 
structions which  I  have  so  often  built 
up  in  my  existence.  Without  doubt,  this 
wretched  infirmity  of  mine,  my  lameness,  by 
placing  me  somewhat  apart  from  others,  has 
made  me  rather  a  spectator  than  an  actor  in 
the  tragicomedy  of  life.  I  have  observed  a 
good  deal.  I  have  used  my  imagination  to  a 
great  extent.  I  have  been  greatly  deceived 
and  often.  Not  this  time.  My  fear  of  seeing 
the  accomplishment  of  the  crime — as  I  con- 
tinued to  call  the  project  of  a  double  suicide — 
strained  all  my  faculties  of  observation;  and 
that  I  saw  clearly  into  the  sudden  intellectual 
interest  aroused  in  Mme.  Ortegue  by  her 
cousin's  moral  attitude  was  proved  to  me 
almost  immediately. 

211 


212  The  Night  Cometh 

How  did  the  Abbe  Courmont  manage  to 
dissipate  Le  Gallic's  scruples?  Did  he  treat 
them  as  mere  imagination?  Or  else  did  he 
look  upon  Mme.  Ortegue's  presence  at  the 
wounded  man's  bedside  as  a  possible  means 
of  converting  her,  and,  who  knows,  the  Pro- 
fessor also?  The  fact  remains  that  a  tacit 
agreement  was  arrived  at,  and  that  the  young 
woman  began  to  render  her  cousin  a  few 
services  proper  to  nurses.  She  assisted  in  the 
dressing  of  his  wound.  She  saw  to  his  meals. 
Although  he  obviously  avoided  long  talks 
with  her,  the  few  words  which  escaped  from 
him  from  time  to  time  regarding  his  interpre- 
tation of  life,  the  judgments  which  he  delivered 
on  men  and  on  things,  the  books  which  she 
saw  him  read,  all  the  revelations  also  of  the 
wealth  of  his  soul  engrossed  her.  Sufficiently, 
indeed,  to  make  her  ask  me,  after  only  forty- 
eight  hours  of  those  cares : 

"Marsal,  have  you  known  many  devout 
persons  in  your  life?  " 

"None  other  than  my  mother.  I  mean  to 
say,  really  known.  But  the  characteristic 


The  Source  of  Strength          213 

of  the  sincerely  religious  person  is  that  he 
hides  himself.  Again  a  rule  of  the  Gospel 
and  once  more  in  the  'certain  sermon':  ' But 
thou,  when  ihou  prayest,  enter  into  thy  closet, 
and  when  thou  hast  shut  the  door,  pray  to  thy 
Father  which  is  in  secret. ' 

"But  have  you  observed,  among  those 
whom  you  have  known  to  be  sincerely 
devout  persons,  even  without  knowing  them 
intimately,  that  their  belief  gives  them 
strength?  " 

' '  I  don't  quite  understand  you.  To  believe 
is  it  self  strength." 

"I  have  framed  my  question  badly.  I 
should  like  to  know  this:  Do  you  think  that 
the  strength  displayed  by  my  cousin,  to-day 
when  his  suffering  is  so  great,  yesterday  when 
face  to  face  with  death,  which  he  braved  so 
coolly,  comes  from  his  ideas  or  his  character?  " 

"From  both,"  I  replied,  "for  they  are 
connected." 

"It  is,  however,  very  astonishing,"  she 
insisted,  "that  one  can  find  strength  in 
complete  error." 


214  The  Night  Cometh 

She  was  only  at  the  stage  of  astonishment. 
A  few  days  later,  I  heard  her — to  my  own 
great  surprise — hold  with  her  husband  a  dis- 
cussion which  very  clearly  indicated  the  evolu- 
tion taking  place  in  her  mind. 

"What  do  you  think  Le  Gallic  said  to  me 
just  now?"  Ortegue  began.  "I'll  give  you  a 
thousand  guesses.  He,  an  officer  and  present 
on  the  occasion,  says  that  the  Battle  of  the 
Marne  was  a  miracle.  .  .  .  Why?  Because, 
it  appears,  it  can  never  be  explained  strategi- 
cally. 'Well,'  I  replied  to  him,  'granted 
that  it  cannot  be  explained,  that  we  do  not 
know  the  necessary  conditions  well  enough 
to  give  an  explanation,  nevertheless  there  is 
one. '  '  Yes, '  he  said,  '  a  supernatural  explana- 
tion. '  Confess,  Marsal,  that  it  is  astonish- 
ing to  find  any  one,  in  the  year  1914,  thinking 
like  that.  But  you  can't  account  for  these 
secular,  stereotyped  minds.  .  .  ." 

"The  unknown,  however,  exists  in  the 
world,"  exclaimed  Mme.  Ortegue. 

"There's  nothing  but  the  unknown,"  he 
replied. 


The  Source  of  Strength          215 

"Well  then  .  .  ." 

She  hesitated.     He  insisted : 

"  Well  then,  what?  " 

"Then  Le  Gallic's  hypothesis  may  be  as 
true  as  any  other?  " 

11  Reason  a  little,"  he  continued.  "You 
do  not  know  what  the  next  room  contains  at 
this  moment?  Does  it  follow  that  you  have 
the  right  to  think  that  it  contains  a  centaur 
or  a  unicorn, — fabulous  animals?  We  do 
not  know  what  the  unknown  is.  We  know 
quite  well  what  it  cannot  be." 

"All  the  same/'  she  said,  "the  Hertzian 
waves,  radium,  before  they  were  discovered 

M 

"What  are  you  driving  at?"  interrupted 
Ortegue. 

"This:  that  forces,  of  the  very  existence  of 
which  we  are  unaware,  may  be  at  work  in  the 
universe.  When  Le  Gallic  speaks  of  the  su- 
pernatural, he  does  not  affirm  anything  else." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  he  does  not  say  that 
these  forces  are  possible,  but  gives  them  out 
as  real." 


216  The  Night  Cometh 

"But,"  she  replied,  " if  there  was  not  apart 
of  reality,  whatever  it  may  be,  in  his  beliefs, 
how  could  he  obtain  strength  from  it?  That 
which  acts  on  the  real  is  necessarily  real." 

"That  which  is  acting  on  him  is  his  ideas, 
and  a  false  idea  determines  volition  as  much 
and  sometimes  more  than  a  true  idea." 

At  this  point  I  could  not  help  intervening 
The  objections  raised  by  Mme.  Ortegue  pre- 
sented too  great  an  analogy  to  those  which 
had  haunted  my  mind  during  recent  weeks  to 
prevent  my  doing  so.  The  discussion  now 
interested  me  on  my  own  account. 

"Is  that  quite  correct,  mon  cher  maitre?" 
I  asked.  "Certainly  a  false  idea  may  make 
us  act,  but  our  action  very  quickly  collides 
with  the  reality,  which  confronts  us  with  a 
contradiction." 

"And  don't  you  find  that  reality  confronts 
us  with  a  contradiction  to  Le  Gallic's  mystic 
phantasmagoria?  Why  this  terrible  war  itself 
should.  .  .  ." 

"I  do  not,  mon  cher  maitre,  He  interprets 
the  war  and  adapts  himself  to  it." 


The  Source  of  Strength          217 

"Was  I  not  right ?"  he  cried.  " Primo 
purgare.  The  virus  is  reappearing  in  you  also. 
I  appeal  to  the  intelligence  of  both  of  you, 
not  to  your  sensibility  or  your  imagination. 
Neither  our  desires  nor  our  dreams  count  for 
anything  in  the  search  for  truth.  It  is  a 
question  of  forming  a  conception  of  the  world 
in  accordance  with  the  data  of  scientific 
experimentation — data  which  we  ought  to 
have  the  courage  to  regard  as  intangible. 

"Now,  among  all  our  conceptions,  one 
alone  does  not  contradict  these  data:  an  eter- 
nal and  infinite  energy,  ever  identical  in  its 
elements  and  laws,  which  creates,  destroys, 
renews  inexhaustibly,  without  beginning  and 
without  end,  and  consequently  without  object. 
Everything  which  exists — individual,  species, 
planet — arose  from  this  indistinct  abyss  and 
falls  back  into  it.  We  do  not  know  the  limit 
of  the  power  of  this  energy.  Its  laws  are 
constant,  but  we  do  not  know  them  all. 
Hence  those  obscurities  which  we  call  myste- 
ries, and  which  are  merely  interferences.  We 
place  desires  and  dreams  in  them.  Behold 


218  The  Night  Cometh 

the  Supernatural!  It  is  true  that  if  we  were 
to  speak  to  Le  Gallic  on  the  subject  of  inter- 
ferences. .  .  But,  perhaps,  after  all,  he 
knows  there  are  luminous  waves,  and  that 
when  they  strike  against  each  other,  there  is  a 
diminution  of  light.  He  must  have  covered 
a  certain  amount  of  physics  to  get  into  Saint 
Cyr.  Little  good  it  has  done  him!  .  .  ." 


XXIII 

A  HEART   INVADED 

HE  uttered  the  last  little  phrase  with  such 
bitterness  that  the  conversation  was 
brought  to  an  abrupt  conclusion.  Jealousy 
was  again  gnawing  at  his  heart.  His  wife 
certainly  noticed  it  as  I  did.  I  observed  that, 
during  the  days  which  followed  this  talk,  her 
visits  to  the  wounded  man's  room  began  to  be 
less  frequent.  Every  now  and  then  she  sent 
a  nurse  in  her  stead.  On  the  other  hand,  her 
assiduity  towards  her  husband  increased  still 
more.  She  constantly  returned  to  his  office 
when  he  was  resting  there.  "Where  is  he?" 
She  let  her  eyes  leave  him  hardly  for  a  moment, 
was  alarmed  by  his  slightest  display  of  impa- 
tience, was  eager  to  disarm  him  by  forestalling 
his  slightest  fancies.  I  also  noticed  that  this 

redoubling  of  her  attentions,  instead  of  calm- 

219 


220  The  Night  Cometh 

ing  Ortegue,  seemed  to  increase  Ort£gue's 
irritability  He  became  the  ungrateful  patient 
who  reproaches  those  who  nurse  him  for  his 
disease.  "Who  is  the  person  whom  (Edipus 
detests  the  most?"  said  one  of  my  patients, 
a  tabetic,  to  me  one  day,  when  I  reproached 
him  for  his  harshness  towards  a  relative  who 
lavished  her  devotion  on  him.  "Antigone, 
because  every  minute  she  proves  to  him  that 
he  is  blind."  In  spite  of  myself,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  Ortegue's  increasing  injustice  towards 
his  wife,  I  recalled  that  cynical  declaration, 
and  felt  that  beneath  the  witticism  was  hidden, 
alas !  a  sad  human  truth. 

But  was  there  only  injustice  in  Ortegue? 
Yes,  in  case  one  confined  oneself  to  looking 
merely  at  acts.  But  when  you  know  a  house- 
hold, as  I  now  knew  this  one,  in  all  its  most 
intimate  details,  acts  are  nothing.  Feelings 
are  everything.  Had  Mme.  Ortegue  fled 
from  the  Clinique,  unable  to  bear  the  sight 
of  her  husband's  decadence,  the  sick  man 
might  have  shown  less  rancour.  He  might 
have  said  to  himself:  "To  see  me  thus  pains 


A  Heart  Invaded  221 

her  too  much.  She  loves  me  still."  But  to 
him,  as  to  me,  this  multiplication  of  little 
material  cares  betrayed  a  constant  voluntary- 
effort.  Above  all,  that  systematic  flight  from, 
that  shunning  of  her  cousin,  proved  that  she 
was  struggling.  Against  what?  Against  the 
invasion  of  her  heart,  not  perhaps  by  a  new 
affection,  but  by  a  fresh  interest.  Another 
male  personality  had  become  living  to  her. 

Language  is  so  clumsy  an  algebra,  when  it 
is  a  question  of  translating  shades  of  sentiment, 
the  formulae  float  about  in  such  a  condition 
of  approximation,  that  I  cannot  find  words 
precise  enough  to  interpret  a  moral  situation 
the  cruel  stages  of  which  I  have  recognized 
so  well,  the  drama  of  a  soul  which  has  reached, 
as  regards  another,  a  sort  of  saturation  point, 
and  discovers  with  terrible  remorse  this  ter- 
mination of  the  tenderness  of  the  past.  That 
term — saturation  point — is  very  technical, 
very  brutal.  It  expresses  so  exactly  Mme. 
Ortegue's  incapability  of  experiencing  a  fresh 
emotion  for  her  husband ! 

On  the  other  hand,  everything  was  new  in 


222  The  Night  Cometh 

the  sensations  given  her  by  the  poetry  sud- 
denly revealed  in  the  comrade  of  her  child- 
hood. She  had  known  him  as  an  obedient 
child,  a  good  young  man,  a  Saint  Cyrian  noted 
for  his  studious  diligence,  and  an  industrious 
officer.  She  met  him  again  in  the  character 
of  a  Crusader,  and  this  at  a  time  when  her 
affection  for  her  husband,  always  more 
imaginary  than  real,  existed  merely  in  her 
will  power.  When  she  told  me,  in  our  tragic 
conversation,  of  her  horror  of  women  who 
love  a  second  time,  who  abjure  their  own  past, 
this  confession  slipped  from  her:  "The  most 
terrible  thing  is  that,  while  living,  and  in  spite 
of  oneself,  one  changes!"  She  was  already 
defending  herself  against  the  exhaustion  of 
her  sensibility. 

The  folly  of  her  offer  to  die  with  her  hus- 
band had  had  as  its  motive  not  merely  the 
irresistible  need  of  consoling  his  terrible  dis- 
tress. She  had  wished  to  furnish  herself  with 
a  proof  that  she  remained  absolutely,  blindly 
faithful  to  her  love.  How  could  she  keep  up 
this  illusion,  now  that  a  feeling  was  springing 


A  Heart  Invaded  223 

up  by  her  side — a  feeling  all  the  stronger 
through  its  being  accompanied  by  a  spiritual 
revival?  The  piety  of  her  girlhood  before 
the  hypnotism  of  the  paternal  mind  had  turned 
her  into  an  unbeliever,  was  obscurely  awakened 
in  her  heart. 

At  the  same  time,  she  discovered  in  it 
traces  of  agitations  which  had  been  less  felt 
than  dreamt  about,  the  recollection,  formerly 
obliterated,  now  suddenly  revived,  of  the  silent 
romance  of  her  fifteenth  year.  In  the 
course  of  the  remarks  which  the  nurse  and  the 
wounded  man  exchanged  in  my  presence,  and 
in  that  of  Ortegue,  according  to  circumstances, 
the  words  "Do  you  remember? "  passed  and 
repassed  incessantly.  The  old  playmates  went 
back  to  scenes  insignificant  to  everybody  save 
themselves.  Ortegue  was  absent  from  these 
recollections,  but  was  not  this,  to  his  wife, 
one  of  their  attractions?  They  served  her 
as  a  relaxation  from  the  present  nightmare. 

Perhaps  also — I  set  down  this  idea  only  as 
a  hypothesis — this  was  an  effect  of  that 
psychic  environment  of  the  subject  to  which 


224  The  Night  Cometh 

I  am  ever  returning.  By  what  signs  do  we 
recognize  the  presence  of  a  form  of  energy, — 
for  instance,  electricity?  By  the  fact  that  it 
impresses  us  directly,  or  else  is  transformed 
into  another  form  of  energy,  which  impresses 
us  in  its  turn.  Light  and  heat  belong  to  the 
first  group,  electricity  to  the  second.  We  can- 
not perceive  it  directly,  hence  the  explana- 
tion for  its  being  so  long  unknown.  The 
existence  of  a  psychic  medium,  independent 
of  nerve  centres,  and  whence  these  would 
draw  their  force,  is  therefore  possible.  Does 
not  Blainville's  formula,  that  the  brain  is  the 
substratum  and  not  the  organ  of  thought, 
contain  a  hypothesis  analogous  to  my  own? 
But  I  am  wandering  from  the  point.  I  would 
merely  connect  to  a  more  general  law  a  tele- 
pathic, or  more  correctly  telesthetic  phenom- 
enon, which  I  myself  observed.  Myers 
defined  it  as  "the  transmission  of  impres- 
sions of  any  kind  whatsoever  between  one 
brain  and  another,  independently  of  any 
known  sensorial  path."  Goethe,  who  pos- 
sessed a  great  scientific  mind,  also  said:  "One 


A  Heart  Invaded  225 

soul  can,  by  its  very  presence,  act  strongly 
on  another/' 

Was  not  the  mental  purchase  which  Le 
Gallic  began  to  obtain  over  Mme.  Ortegue 
an  action  of  that  order?  He  loved  her  pas- 
sionately, and,  as  I  have  since  learnt,  against 
his  will.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  asso- 
ciated her  with  the  continual  dialogue  with 
God  which  his  prayers  and  meditations  pro- 
longed indefinitely.  Everything  happened  as 
though  radiations  emanating  from  this  secret 
fount  of  love  enveloped  and  influenced  the 
young  woman.  Such  are  two  poles  connected 
by  a  magnetic  current.  But  whoever  says 
current,  implies  a  conducting  medium.  Per- 
haps indeed — I  pass  to  the  point  of  view  Le 
Gallic  himself  would  have  taken — I  was  merely 
witnessing  one  of  those  miracles  which  are 
invisible  to  the  unbeliever,  and  which,  to 
those  with  faith,  are  of  daily  occurrence? 
Yes,  perhaps  the  wounded  man's  ardent 
prayers  exorcized  the  spell  which  had  been 
burdening  the  unhappy  woman  for  weeks 
past?  Who  knows? 


226  The  Night  Cometh 

These  hypotheses  occupied  my  mind  from 
that  time  onward.  They  interest  me  still. 
But  of  what  consequence  were  the  causes  of 
this  evolution  in  his  wife  and  the  principle  of 
that  influence  to  the  dying  husband,  to  that 
imperious  and  passionate  Ortegue  who  was 
made  irritable  by  his  disease  and  whose 
jealousy  made  him  cruel?  The  agitations  of 
this  feminine  heart,  so  long  in  his  possession, 
and  their  origin  could  not  escape  his  perspi- 
cuity, which  was  all  the  keener  because  the 
sentimental  emulation  between  Le  Gallic  and 
himself  was  increased  by  another.  Ortegue 
was  as  passionate  in  his  irreligion  as  in  his 
love.  To  have  a  believer  of  such  fervour  as 
this  as  a  rival,  redoubled  his  torture.  When 
I  now  think  of  it,  and  from  a  distance,  I  shud- 
der at  the  idea  of  his  last  days,  spent  thus  in 
holding  his  peace. 

I  have  since  learnt  that  his  wife  did  not 
succeed  in  dragging  a  word  from  him  for  hours 
and  hours  at  a  stretch.  As  the  donjon  of  a 
ruined  castle  remains  standing,  so  pride  was 
the  only  thing  that  remained  of  the  triumphant 


A  Heart  Invaded  227 

Ortegue  whom  I  had  known  and  so  much 
admired.  I  gathered  from  these  disclosures 
of  Mme.  Ortegue,  that  there  was  no  repetition 
of  the  violent  scene  of  which  she  was  the  victim 
in  my  presence,  at  Le  Gallic's  bedside.  Nor, 
during  that  period,  which  lasted  nearly  a  fort- 
night, did  Ortegue  ever  speak  to  her  of  their 
suicidal  compact,  although  his  ever  progres- 
sive emaciation  and  the  more  and  more  marked 
intensity  of  the  jaundice  proclaimed  the  im- 
placable progress  of  the  disease.  He  rose 
for  only  a  few  hours,  but  on  all  occasions  re- 
fused to  leave  the  hospital,  despite  the  objur- 
gations of  those  of  his  confreres  who  came  to 
see  him  and  dared  to  give  advice.  Visibly,  he 
was  suffering  more  and  more,  and  the  injections 
of  morphia  were  becoming  more  frequent. 

Such  a  state  of  affairs  could  be  prolonged 
neither  physically  nor  morally.  I  saw  that 
clearly.  My  observations  tended  towards 
the  conclusion  that  a  crisis  was  imminent. 
The  patient  was  at  the  end  of  his  strength, 
but  the  man  was  not  at  the  end  of  his  jealousy. 
He  was  about  to  prove  that. 


XXIV 

PAUSING  AT   THE   BRINK 

ONE  morning,  as  I  was  going,  as  usual,  to 
his  bedroom,  to  communicate  to  him 
the  reports  of  the  night  nurses,  I  was  told  that 
he  had  risen  and  was  in  his  study.  I  found 
him  seated  at  his  desk,  in  the  act  of  disposing 
of  a  heap  of  letters, — tearing  up  some,  classi- 
fying others,  or  throwing  them  into  a  blazing 
fire.  Warned  as  I  was,  I  saw  immediately 
that  these  arrangements  were  only  prepara- 
tions. I  recognized  a  long  massive  mahogany 
chest,  which  was  usually  on  his  work-table  at 

r 

the  Place  des  Etats-Unis,  and  in  which  I  knew 
he  kept  his  correspondence.  He  hardly  cast 
a  glance  at  the  sheets  I  handed  him.  Usually 
he  examined  them  minutely. 

"By-the-bye,"  he  asked,  "where  have  you 

got  to  with  your  notes  ?" 

228 


Pausing  at  the  Brink  229 

He  had  asked  me,  in  fact,  to  draw  up  a 
record  of  the  most  interesting  cases  observed 
in  our  hospital. 

"I  depend  upon  it  a  good  deal,  as  I  have 
already  told  you,"  he  insisted.  "My  work 
here  has  not  been  what  I  should  have  liked 
it  to  have  been,  materially,  you  understand. 
All  the  same,  I've  .  .  ."he  corrected  himself, 
"we've  done  some  good  work.  It  must  be 
made  serviceable  to  Science.  How  many 
observations  does  the  whole  represent?" 

"  Fifty." 

"And  you  have  how  many  more  to  make  a 
fair  copy  of?" 

"Eleven  or  twelve." 

"Good!"  he  said.  "You  will  have  been  of 
very  great  help  to  me,  under  very  trying  circum- 
stances, my  dear  Marsal.  Will  you  be  very 
nice  to  your  poor  old  master?  Finish  transcrib- 
ing those  last  eleven  or  twelve  observations 
between  now  and  to-morrow  morning  ..." 

''If  only  my  duties  will  ..." 

"Quenaut  and  Renard  will  see  to  every- 
thing. I  shall  give  them  orders." 


230  The  Night  Cometh 

Qu6naut  was  the  surgeon  whom  he  had 
called  in  following  his  break-down — a  very 
good  operator  and  who,  moreover,  incessantly 
bothered  me  to  speak  to  Ortegue  on  the  sub- 
ject of  a  surgical  intervention.  In  the  Direc- 
tor's presence  he  was  as  much  a  little  boy  as 
I  was  myself.  Renard  was  the  incompetent 
student  who  assisted  us  and  assists  us  still  as 
a  hospital  pupil. 

"Very  well,  between  now  and  to-morrow 
everything  shall  be  set  down,"  I  replied. 

"Thank  you.  I  desire  these  notes  to  be 
communicated  to  the  earliest  meeting  of  the 
Academy  of  Medicine,  and  I  need  to  read  them 
over.  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death, 
and  in  my  condition  .  .  ." 

A  smile  passed  over  his  face  as  he  uttered 
these  words  and  completed  my  conviction, 
so  expressive  was  it  of  bitterness  and  impa- 
tience. On  leaving  him,  I  went  cold  all  over 
and  my  legs  trembled.  I  had  just  been  fur- 
nished with  a  proof  that  it  was  settled.  Still 
clearer  was  this  made  to  me  when  I  met  Mme. 
Ortegue.  She  was  deadly  pale,  with  a  fixed 


Pausing  at  the  Brink  231 

expression,  and  an  almost  convulsive  trem- 
bling of  the  lids  of  her  eyes,  which  seemed  to 
be  concentrated  upon  a  horrible  vision  inter- 
posed between  herself  and  the  objects  around 
her. 

If  things  had  reached  such  a  pitch  as  this 
and  the  fateful  day  had  arrived,  hesitation 
on  my  part  was  no  longer  permissible;  and 
that  the  fateful  day  had  arrived  was  proved 
to  me,  for  the  third  time  and  irrefutably,  by 
a  very  simple  incident.  Its  coincidence  with 
Ortegue's  demand  for  the  completion  of  my 
notes  ended  in  dissipating  my  doubts.  About 
half-past  ten  the  Professor  again  summoned 
me.  He  was  with  a  solemn-faced  individual, 
whom  I  had  already  met  at  his  house,  and 
who  was  no  other  than  his  notary. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,  my  dear  Marsal,"  he 
began,  "that  Maitre  Metivier  was  coming 
to-day  for  the  signing  of  the  document  which 
settles  your  position  here,  after  my  departure.*' 

" There  you  are  again  with  your  ideas!" 
protested  the  stout  notary,  whose  comfort- 
ble,  over-fed  appearance — that  of  a  well-set 


232  The  Night  Cometh 

sexagenarian — formed  an  extraordinary  con- 
trast with  that  of  the  dying  man  whom  he  made 
a  pretence  of  comforting.  "You  look  much 
better,"  he  insisted.  "Moreover,  we  have 
always  noticed  at  the  office,  my  clerks  and  I, 
that  it  resuscitates  people  to  make  their  wills, 
but  you  had  no  need  .  .  ." 

"Will  you  acquaint  Dr.  Marsal  with  the 
contents  of  the  document?"  said  Ortegue, 
ignoring  these  consoling  remarks,  which,  in 
their  banality,  were,  involuntarily,  cruelly 
ironical.  Maitre  Metivier  handed  me  the 
sheet  of  stamped  paper,  at  which  I  glanced 
for  form's  sake.  "He  has  summoned  his 
notary  to  look  at  his  will,"  thought  I,  "and 
the  other  has  just  said  so.  What  more  is 
there  for  me  to  wait  for?  "  And  my  signature 
had  no  sooner  been  placed  at  the  foot  of  the 
last  clause  than  I  hastily  took  my  leave. 

I  went  straight  to  Mme.  Ortegue's  room. 
She  was  not  there.  I  sought  for  her  through- 
out the  hospital,  without  finding  her  any- 
where. Tired  out,  I  went  to  see  the  secretary 
who  kept  the  register  at  the  door.  He  in- 


Pausing  at  the  Brink  233 

informed  me  that  she  had  gone  out.  My 
instinctive  and  immediate  reasoning  was: 
"If  the  suicide  has  been  decided  upon,  she 

X 

must  have  gone  to  the  Place  des  Etats-Unis 
to  put  her  private  papers  in  order,  as  Ortegue 
has  been  doing  just  now.  How  can  I  make 
sure  of  that?  Telephone?  So  that  she  will 
refuse  to  see  me  if  she  is  there!  Go  there? 
Surprise  her?  Suppose  I  try  ..." 

It  required  only  a  moment  to  take  off  my 
hospital  blouse,  to  put  on  my  coat,  to  hail  a 
taxi-cab,  and  I  was  speeding  along  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Germain,  the  quays,  the  Avenue 
Marceau,  and  the  Rue  Bizet  towards  that 
mansion  where  I  had  so  often  visited  the 
fashionable  surgeon  in  happier  days.  What 
a  tumult  my  thoughts  were  in  during  that 
journey!  and  then  what  emotion  I  felt  when 
the  door-keeper,  replying  to  my  question,  said: 

"Madam  has  been  at  home  for  the  past 
hour.  I  will  announce  Monsieur.*' 

"There  is  no  need  to  trouble,"  I  said, 
anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  man.  "She  expects 


me." 


234  The  Night  Cometh 

I  rushed  up  the  staircase,  feeling  certain, 
if  she  were  engaged  in  arranging  her  private 
affairs,  that  I  should  find  her  in  her  little 
second-floor  drawing-room.  The  rooms  on 
the  first  floor  were  reserved  for  patients  and 
receptions.  The  appearance  of  things  around 
me  recalled  to  my  mind,  as  I  mounted  the 
steps,  the  Ortegue  of  the  period  preceding  his 
illness.  At  a  celebrated  sale,  he  had  secured, 
after  keen  bidding,  the  Italian  Renaissance 
statue  which  stood  in  the  vestibule.  The 
Spanish  tapestries,  hanging  on  the  walls,  had 
figured  under  his  name  as  a  collector  at  a  great 
retrospective  exhibition.  The  gratitude  of 
an  American  millionaire,  whom  he  had  saved, 
was  embodied  in  a  china  vase,  a  huge  example 
of  art  nouveaUj  supported  by  a  no  less  huge 
carved  wooden  pedestal  in  the  corner  of  the 
landing.  Ancient  stained-glass  bathed  with 
a  warm  soft  light  the  silence  of  this  residence, 
abandoned  now  for  ever  by  the  one  whose 
pride  it  trumpeted  forth. 

This  deserted  and  silent  staircase  still  fur- 
ther increased  my  sadness.     I  had,  as  it  were, 


Pausing  at  the  Brink  235 

the  physical  sensation  of  visiting  a  tomb — 
the  feeling  that  Ortegue  was  already  dead! 
.  .  .  But  someone  was  living  and  must  con- 
tinue to  live — the  unhappy  woman  who  had 
also  ascended  these  two  floors  amid  the  phan- 
toms of  former  hours  of  triumph.  I  had 
reached  the  door  of  the  little  drawing-room. 
I  knocked,  a  prey  to  the  most  unspeakable 
emotion.  A  voice  replied,  "Come  in!"  It 
was  hers! 

Just  like  her  husband  a  short  time  before — 
a  clear  proof  that  I  was  right — she  was  sitting 
at  her  desk,  surrounded  by  letters  which  she 
had  begun  to  classify.  She  had  stopped  this 
work  in  order  to  write.  Thinking  that  she 
was  speaking  to  the  door-keeper,  she  said 
simply,  "Is  that  you,  Joseph?  .  .  ."  and  her 
pen  continued  to  move  over  the  paper.  Then, 
turning  round,  she  saw  me  and  started  to  her 
feet  with  a  cry. 

"You,  Marsal?  What  has  happened?  Does 
my  husband  want  me?  Is  he  worse?  " 

It  was  the  first  time  for  many  days  that  I 


236  The  Night  Cometh 

had  seen  her  dressed  otherwise  than  as  a 
nurse.  She  was  still  the  beautiful  Mme. 
Ortegue  of  former  times,  but  how  changed! 
These  weeks  of  anguish  had  imparted  to  her 
noble  features  an  outline  that  was  finer,  more 
compact,  more  hollow,  as  though  cruelly 
chiselled. 

"No,  madam,"  I  replied,  "and  he  does  not 
know  that  you  have  gone  out.  I  have  left 
him  with  Maitre  Metivier,  his  notary/' 

"And  so  you  have  understood?"  she  said. 
With  her  hands  behind  her  back,  she  leant 
against  the  table,  her  head  hanging  down 
loosely.  The  start  of  surprise  over,  my  pres- 
ence no  longer  astonished  her.  How  and 
why  I  had  come  to  the  Place  des  ^tats-Unis 
— drawn  there  by  what  presentiment,  she 
did  not  ask  herself.  I  was  there.  I  formed 
part  of  the  day-dream  in  the  midst  of  which 
she  was  struggling,  and  with  fixed  eyes  and 
half-open  mouth,  she  said: 

"Yes,  it  is  for  to-morrow.  I  have  promised 
and  courage  fails  me  .  .  ." 

She  had  uttered  these  words  in  a  low  voice 


Pausing  at  the  Brink  237 

for  herself  alone.  Looking  at  me,  she 
continued : 

"Marsal,  I  cannot  speak  to  my  husband. 
I  cannot  face  his  contempt!  Look  .  .  ." 
She  turned  round,  and  with  a  trembling  hand 
pointed  to  the  page  interrupted  by  my  entry. 
''I  was  writing  there  what  I  have  not  the 
strength  to  tell  him.  Take  his  sheet,  Marsal, 
take  it " 

She  sank  on  to  her  chair,  and,  overcome, 
let  her  arms  fall  slowly  on  to  the  table,  with 
her  head  on  her  arms;  and  without  uttering 
another  word  she  began  to  cry.  I  took  the 
sheet  of  paper  and  read  as  follows: 

"I  sincerely  believed  that  my  love  of  him 
constituted  my  whole  life,  my  whole  being. 
I  told  him  so,  and  it  is  not  true.  I  believed 
that  if  he  died,  the  natural,  the  inevitable 
thing  for  me  to  do  was  to  die  with  him.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  if  he  were  taken  from  me, 
I  should  no  longer  exist.  It  was  my  soul 
dragged  from  my  body.  I  could  not  picture 
the  sorrow  of  losing  him.  It  was  too  terrible. 


238  The  Night  Cometh 

That  was  beyond  my  power.  I  imagined  the 
void,  the  inanity  of  my  being,  separated  from 
his,  eyes  deprived  of  light,  heart  emptied  of 
blood.  To  such  an  extent  had  he  set  his  im- 
press upon  me!  His  voice,  look,  and  mind, 
infused  into  me,  had  formed  me  into  a  new 
creature.  That  look,  so  warm,  so  full  of 
gleams  and  disturbing,  that  somewhat  bitter 
voice,  which  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  very 
voice  of  intelligence  and  passion,  that  inde- 
fatigable mind  the  audacity  of  which  carried 
me  away,  intoxicated  me  with  confidence. 
But  there  was  nothing  else  in  me  than  that! 
I  was  merely  the  impression  and  reflection  of 
you.  Never  did  I  think,  like  so  many  other 
women,  of  the  face  and  figure,  which  you  loved 
so  much.  When  I  closed  my  eyes,  your  eyes 
still  shone  under  my  eyelids  and  possessed  me. 
"Michel,  Michel,  is  our  love  at  an  end?  I 
am  frightened  of  you  now.  I  suffer  from 
unspeakable  shame  and  anguish.  From  day 
to  day,  from  hour  to  hour,  it  seems  as  though 
you  are  slipping  away  from  me,  withdrawing 
from  me,  and  that  my  separated  existence 


Pausing  at  the  Brink  239 

is  reforming  itself.  I  desire  things  which  are 
not  you.  I  desire  air  and  light  and  space,  in 
which  it  is  so  good  to  walk!  I  desire  to  share 
the  ardour  of  this  nation  in  arms.  I  desire 
the  thanks  of  the  wounded  to  whom  I  am 
doing  good.  Oh!  Michel!  All  that,  even 
without  you,  I  desire. 

"Michel!  .  .  .  But  I  shall  never  dare  to 
speak  to  him.  How  he  will  despise  me! 
Would  he  have  ever  abandoned  me  in  danger, 
in  suffering? 

"But  if  I  live,  I  abandon  him.  .  .  .  To- 
wards the  horrible  path  before  which  I  am 
faltering  he  is  every  hour  advancing.  He  must 
advance.  He  cannot  stop,  poor  man!  There 
is  only  me  in  the  world  who  can  help  him,  by 
walking  by  his  side,  and  by  lying  near  to  him 
in  the  tomb. 

"Ah!  Michel,  I  cannot  do  it!  I  have  pro- 
mised too  much.  Free  me  from  my  word; 
If  you  require  it,  our  bodies  shall  be  laid  in 
the  same  shell,  but  our  souls  must  be  liberated 
before  death.  The  trial  is  too  terrible.  It 
shatters  me.  It  shatters  our  love.  Let  me 


240  The  Night  Cometh 

live.  Even  bruised  and  torn  I  would  live. 
I  am  well  aware  that  I  shall  be  ever  wretched 
after  the  splendid  years  I  have  known  through 
you.  Ah!  if  only  I  could  hope  to  cross  with 
you  the  threshold  of  another  world,  if  only 
we  could  continue  to  love  each  other  in  a 
heaven  or  in  a  hell!  But  death  is  the  end  of 
all  things.  I  beg  you,  Michel,  to  spare  the 
flower  which  you  love.  .  .  ." 

This  suddenly  interrupted  phrase,  the  ink 
of  which  was  not  yet  dry,  was  completed  by  a 
spasmodic  stroke  of  the  pen.  Not  again 
while  I  live  shall  I  experience  this  sensation 
of  having  gazed  upon  a  bleeding  heart,  of 
having  touched  its  most  sensitive  spot. 


XXV 

HASTENING   TO  ORTEGUE 

1HAD  no  time  to  waste  over  emotion.  I 
had  in  my  possession  that  unique  means 
of  acting  on  Ortegue  for  which  I  had  sought 
for  weeks.  He  should  hear  this  agonized 
appeal — and  immediately.  However  changed 
his  personality  might  be,  however  weakened 
by  disease,  poison,  and  despair,  its  chords 
remained  too  sensitive  to  prevent  them  from 
responding  to  this  supplication  of  a  soul  in 
agony.  I  looked  at  Mme.  Ortegue.  She  was 
still  weeping,  with  her  arms,  head,  and  bosom 
crushed,  as  it  were,  against  the  table  on  which 
she  had  written  this  lamentable  confession. 
She  no  longer  saw  me.  She  no  longer  knew 
either  that  I  was  there  or  where  she  was  her- 
self. What  was  the  good  of  trying  to  console 
her?  The  thing  to  be  done  was  to  save  her. 

16  241 


242  The  Night  Cometh 

Stepping  as  softly  as  I  could,  I  left  the  little 
drawing-room.  Then,  as  quickly  as  my 
wretched  leg  would  allow  me,  I  hurried  down 
the  staircase  and  out  of  the  house  into  the 
taxi.  I  shouted  to  the  chauffeur  the  address 
in  Rue  Saint  Guillaume.  I  trembled  at  the 
thought  that  Mme.  Ortegue,  on  recovering 
herself,  might  follow  me  to  take  back  that 
sheet  of  paper — her  salvation!  Once  more  I 
read  its  harrowing  phrases,  interrupting  the 
reading  repeatedly  to  peep  through  the  little 
window  in  the  hood  for  the  purpose  of  ascer- 
taining whether  any  carriage  were  following 
mine.  No.  On  reaching  the  hospital  and 
while  paying  the  chauffeur,  I  noticed  that  the 
Rue  Saint  Guillaume  was  deserted.  Mme. 
Ortegue  had  not  followed  me,  at  any  rate  not 
immediately.  I  had  full  liberty  of  action. 

In  the  courtyard  I  ran  up  against  Maitre 
Metivier.  The  ceremonious  notary,  who,  a 
short  time  before,  in  the  office,  had  greeted  me 
with  distant  affability,  was  the  first  to  ap- 
proach me.  He  had  been  so  astonished  by 
the  conversation  he  had  had  with  his  cele- 


Hastening  to  Ort£gue  243 

brated  client  that,  at  the  risk  of  being  guilty 
of  professional  indiscretion,  he  referred  to  it. 

"I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  Dr.  Marsal.  I 
know  how  fond  of  you  is  M.  Ortegue.  I  have 
just  received  proof  of  it."  I  have  since  un- 
derstood this  allusion  to  the  will  of  my  poor 
master,  who,  in  his  generous  affection,  had 
bequeathed  his  Clinique  to  me,  in  the  event  of 
his  wife's  death.  "And  you  also,"  continued 
Metivier,  "are  very  fond  of  him,  aren't  you?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then,  watch  him.  I  should  not  be  aston- 
ished to  hear  that  he  was  contemplating  a 
fatal  resolution.  I  have  even  thought  fit  to 
warn  the  Chaplain.  For,  as  you  know,  I'm 
not  a  free-thinker.  I  have  implicit  faith,  and 
I  should  very  much  like  to  meet  my  faith- 
ful clients  in  heaven,  especially  those,  like  M. 
Ortegue,  who  are  the  glory  of  a  practice." 

Consumed  as  I  was  by  anxiety,  I  could  not 
help  wondering  how  the  same  ideas,  refracted 
in  different  minds,  assume  contradictory  as- 
pects. In  the  eyes  of  the  worthy  Parisian 
notary  the  other  world  was  for  gens  de  bien, 


244  The  Night  Cometh 

well-to-do  folk,  whom  he  confused  with  gens 
bien,  good  people — big  fortunes  continued. 
This  paradisaical  dream  of  a  comfortable 
after-life  no  more  resembled  the  religion  of 
sorrow  professed  by  the  Breton  Le  Gallic  than 
this  most  eminent  member  of  the  middle- 
classes  himself  resembled  that  officer.  How- 
ever, by  his  somewhat  insipid  optimism, 
Metivier  recognized  the  existence  of  a  spiritual 
world.  Ortegue  also,  in  spite  of  himself,  by 
his  rebellious  pessimism.  His  frenzy,  his 
spasms  of  passion,  the  feverishness  of  his 
nihilism,  his  despair  in  the  presence  of  death, 
which  he  regarded  as  a  drop  into  nothingness, 
his  outbursts  of  anger,  all  constituted  the 
blood  which  dropped  from  the  severed  limbs 
on  the  bed  of  Procrustes.  His  soul  was  muti- 
lated by  his  doctrine. 

All  these  thoughts  came  to  me  afterwards. 
At  the  time  I  had  but  one  idea:  "Maitre 
Metivier  has  spoken  to  the  Abbe  Courmont. 
I  hope  that  the  Abbe  has  not  already  spoken 
to  Ortegue,  and  that  I  shall  not  find  the  Direc- 
tor too  irritable!  If  it  is  possible,  let  me  be 


Hastening  to  Ortfegue  245 

beforehand."  And  I  hurried  towards  the 
office.  But  almost  at  the  door,  at  a  turning 
of  the  corridor,  the  very  person  I  met  was  the 
priest. 

''Are  you  looking  for  the  Professor?"  he 
said  immediately.  "He  is  with  M.  Le  Gallic. 
I  am  looking  for  Mme.  Ortegue." 

"I  have  just  left  her.  Is  the  Professor 
anxious  about  her?" 

"Is  he  anxious!"  replied  the  Abbe  Cour- 
mont.  "He  has  just  gone  into  M.  Le  Gallic's 
in  a  terrible  state!  He  is  no  longer  able  to 
contain  himself.  He  made  a  veritable  scene 
before  us.  A  little  more  and  we  should  have 
incurred  responsibility  for  Mme.  Ortegue's 
absence.  So  I  said  I  would  go  and  look  for 
her.  I  have  left  him  in  the  arm-chair  into 
which  he  collapsed.  Ah!  he  is  indeed  ill! 
God  has  sometimes  a  heavy  hand,  after  hav- 
ing had  an  indulgent  and  open  one.  But  the 
body  matters  nothing.  There  is  his  soul ! . . ." 

"One  question,  Monsieur  1'Abbe.  I  know 
that  the  notary  has  spoken  to  you  of  his  fears 
regarding  the  Professor.  He  trembles  at  the 


246  The  Night  Cometh 

thought  that  my  poor  master  may  have  an 
idea  of  committing  suicide.  You  have  not 
mentioned  the  subject  to  M.  Ortegue?" 

"No,"  said  the  priest.  "But  that  conver- 
sation impressed  me  so  much  that  I  went 
upstairs  to  speak  about  it  with  M.  Le  Gallic, 
seeing  that  he  is  a  very  near  relative." 

"Did  you  communicate  M6tivier's  idea  to 
M.  Le  Gallic?" 

"He  held  the  same  already." 

"They  are  perhaps  talking  on  the  subject 
at  this  very  moment,"  I  cried.  "What  are 
they  saying?  Let  me  go  to  them,  Monsieur 
1'Abbe  .  .  .  but  alone.  That  will  be  the  wiser 
course.  I  will  reassure  the  Professor  regard- 
ing his  wife's  absence.  She  has  left  the  hos- 
pital on  a  mission,  and  if  there  is  a  discussion 
between  her  cousin  and  him,  I  shall  be  able 
to  intervene  with  more  authority.  The  mere 
sight  of  your  dress  might  have  the  effect  of 
exasperating  M.  Ortegue." 

"I  leave  you,  Dr.  Marsal,"  replied  M. 
Courmont.  "So  long  as  M.  Le  Gallic  is 
there,  I  am  quite  useless,  speaking  from  the 


Hastening  to  Ortegue  247 

religious  point  of  view.  I  preach  the  Gospel. 
But  he  does  more  than  that:  he  lives  and 
suffers  it.  If  M.  Ortegue  does  not  see  reli- 
gious truth  through  that  great  soul,  it  is 
because  he  cannot  see  it,  because,  as  we  theo- 
logians say,  his  ignorance  is  invincible.  The 
parable  of  the  talents  tells  us  that  God  demands 
only  from  those  to  whom  He  has  given.  .  .  . 
And  then,  the  poor  people  whom  the  Professor 
attended  through  charity  will  pray  for  him. 
I  told  Maitre  Metivier  so.  Guess  what  he 
replied.  '  That  is  the  surest  honorarium. '  Oh ! 
it's  not  equal  to  Francois  de  Sales.  All  the 
same,  it's  not  bad  for  a  bourgeois.  But  I  am 
keeping  you  .  .  .  Go  ...  Go  .  .  ." 


XXVI 

A   RECIPROCAL  CHALLENGE 

I  FOUND  Ortegue  at  the  officer's  bedside. 
Le  Gallic's  eyelids  were  drawn  down  over 
his  eyes,  as  though  he  were  asleep;  from  the 
Professor's  anxious  eyes,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  darted  anger.  Both  were  silent.  Le 
Gallic  would  not  permit  himself  to  express, 
and  doubtless  he  reproached  himself  for  feel- 
ing, the  revolt  aroused  in  him  by  the  evident 
and  unjustifiable  jealousy  of  his  cousin's 
husband.  Ortegue  was  bursting  to  speak. 
But  he  was  unable  to  reveal  to  the  young  man, 
whom  he  regarded  as  his  rival  in  his  wife's 
affections,  his  intimate  martyrdom.  Pride 
commanded  him  to  hide  the  terrible  crisis 
through  which  he  was  passing  and  which  had 
suddenly  made  him  decide  to  fix  the  next  day 

for  the  fatal  expiration. 

248 


A  Reciprocal  Challenge          249 

Tortured  by  seeing  the  one  whom  he  loved 
to  distraction  escape  from  him  morally,  tor- 
mented by  that  fever  of  suspicion  which  it 
was  all  the  more  impossible  to  calm  because 
it  was  founded  not  on  facts  but  on  feelings, 
he  wished  to  lay  a  desperate  wager:  either  his 
wife  still  loved  him  and  the  compact  to  commit 
suicide  together  held  good,  or  else,  loving  him 
no  longer,  she  would  draw  back,  and  he  would 
know!  She  had  not  drawn  back,  and  he  did 
not  know.  Another  doubt  had  sprung  from 
that  acceptation,  from  the  "yes"  uttered  by 
Mme.  Ortegue  unhesitatingly  and  which  she 
would  also  carry  out,  but  impelled  by  what? 
Was  she  going  to  die  with  him  through  love 
or  as  a  point  of  honour?  That  painful  ques- 
tion confronted  Ortegue.  It  was  insupport- 
able to  him. 

His  wife's  inexplicable  absence,  by  increas- 
ing the  enigma,  completed  his  exasperation, 
and  perhaps  his  remorse.  What  ferocity 
there  was  in  that  charge  he  was  thus  bringing 
against  a  creature  whose  devotion  he  had  so 
many  times  tested!  The  old  Ortegue,  so 


250  The  Night  Cometh 

noble  and  so  generous,  reproached  the  erring 
Ortegue  of  the  present  with  this  cruelty. 

Moreover,  what  a  contrast  between  this 
almost  bestial  outburst  of  passion  and  the 
self-mastery  of  which  Le  Gallic,  at  this  very 
moment,  set  the  madman  a  severe  and  humili- 
ating example!  This  superiority  of  charac- 
ter was  an  insult,  and  one  that  Ortegue,  with 
the  feelings  which  he  now  fostered  for  the 
officer,  could  not  support.  He  would  have 
learnt  with  dismay  and  horror  that  his  wife 
loved  Le  Gallic.  He  still  doubted  it.  He 
did  not  doubt  that  Le  Gallic  loved  his  wife. 
At  bottom,  as  I  have  already  indicated,  he 
had  always  known  it.  The  indulgently^  ban- 
tering sympathy  which  he  had  so  long  shown 
Mme.  Ortegue's  cousin  was  a  form  of  the 
complacence  which  a  man  advanced  in  life 
shows  for  a  younger  man  to  whom  he  is  pre- 
ferred— an  irresistible  caress  to  the  most  sensi- 
tive spot  of  our  self-esteem.  A  reaction  in 
the  contrary  direction  had  occurred  as  soon 
as  Ortegue  had  no  longer  been  able  to  believe 
absolutely  in  this  preference.  Le  Gallic's 


A  Reciprocal  Challenge          251 

contained  passion  for  his  cousin  had  flattered 
the  triumphant  husband.  The  dying  man 
was  irritated  by  it,  took  offence  at  it.  I  have 
also  indicated  this:  he  hated  him. 

To-day,  these  reflections  spread  themselves 
out  before  my  mind.  At  the  time,  I  perceived 
them  all,  in  a  flash,  through  a  phenomena  of 
mental  simultaneity,  analogous  to  that  pri- 
mary intoxication  of  anaesthesia  which  so  many 
of  my  patients  have  described  to  me.  All  the 
details  of  one's  life  rise  up  before  one;  at  a 
glance  one  sees  whole  series  of  years;  and  yet 
the  inhalation  of  the  ether  or  chloroform  has 
lasted  but  a  second. 

"Lieutenant/*  I  said  to  Le  Gallic  from  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  "pray  excuse  me.  I 
should  like  to  speak  to  the  Professor  privately/' 

I  myself  noticed  that  my  voice  trembled 
slightly.  Doubtless  the  features  of  my  face 
were  distorted.  These  signs  of  emotion  did  not 
escape  Ortegue,  who  questioned  me  sharply. 

"It  has  to  do  with  my  wife?  What  is  it? 
What  has  happened?" 

He  also   spoke  in  a  suffocated   voice.     I 


252  The  Night  Cometh 

distinctly  read  in  his  eyes  the  horrible  vision 
which  rose  up  before  him — his  infatuated 
victim  anticipating  the  hour  and  killing  herself 
the  first. 

"Calm  yourself,  mon  cher  matire"  I  replied. 
"Nothing  has  happened.  I  have  just  left 
Mme.  Ortegue." 

"She  has  come  in,  then?  She  must  know 
that  I  am  looking  for  her.  Why  is  she  not 
with  you?" 

"Because  she  has  not  come  in." 

"You  say  that  you  have  just  left  her. 
Where?" 

"At  her  home,  Place  des  Etats-Unis." 

"She  is  at  the  Place  des  Etats-Unis?  She 
asked  you  to  go  there?" 

"She  did  not  ask  me  to  go  there,  mon  cher 
mattre.  I  went  myself." 

"How  did  you  know  she  was  there?" 

"I  conjectured  it." 

"On  what  grounds?  Why  did  you  seek 
her?"  It  was  Le  Gallic  who  now  inter- 
vened. 

"Because  Dr.  Marsal  was  anxious  about 


A  Reciprocal  Challenge          253 

her,  Cousin.  He  does  not  dare  to  tell  you, 
but  I  guess  it." 

For  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  at  the 
hospital  there  was  a  tone  of  authority  in  his 
voice,  ordinarily  so  resigned  and  detached. 

"Yes/'  he  added,  "and  I  also  was  anxious 
about  her,  after  her  visit  this  morning." 

"She  has  spoken  to  you,  then?"  exclaimed 
Ortegue,  leaning  forward.  Looking  alternately 
at  Le  Gallic  and  at  me,  he  then  said  to  both 
of  us:  "What  is  the  meaning  of  this  con- 
spiracy around  me?"  And  to  Le  Gallic 
alone,  violently:  "What  did  she  say  to  you?" 

"Nothing.  But  I  noticed  she  was  so 
troubled  and  anxious,  like  a  person  in  the 
grip  of  overwhelming  anguish.  As  to  the 
reason  for  that  anguish,  I  fear  to  know  it." 

"Come,  speak  out  .  .  .  Out  with  it!" 
insisted  Ortegue,  still  more  violently. 

"It  is  very  serious,"  replied  Le  Gallic, 
with  visible  effort,  "and  yet  .  .  .  Cousin,  if 
Catherine's  mother  were  here,  or,  in  her 
absence,  our  aunt,  who  is,  after  her  mother, 
her  nearest  relative,  I  would  adjure  her  to  put 


254  The  Night  Cometh 

a  question  to  you.  In  their  absence  and  being 
the  only  representative  of  the  family,  you  must 
not  be  offended  if  I  put  that  question  to  you. 
That  which  is  at  stake  indeed,  if  my  fears  are 
correct — and  I  am  not  the  only  one  to  feel 
them — is  the  cruelest  grief  which  Catherine 
can  experience  through  you.  Cousin,  give  me 
your  word  of  honour  that  you  are  not  thinking 
of  killing  yourself.'* 

On  hearing  such  a  demand  addressed  to 
such  a  man  and  at  such  a  moment,  I  trembled, 
and  still  more  on  looking  at  Ortegue  as  he 
listened  to  it  with  tight-set  jaws,  flashing  eyes, 
and  hands  clenching  the  sides  of  his  arm-chair. 
I  have  often  thought  that  the  wretched  man, 
under  the  double  influence  of  jealousy  and 
morphia,  must  have  been  suffering  on  that 
occasion  from  the  beginning  of  a  veritable  fit 
of  delirium.  Otherwise,  would  he  ever  have 
replied  to  that  evidently  unacceptable  ques- 
tion by  a  still  more  unacceptable  one,  which 
risked  provoking  a  fatal  emotion  in  a  wounded 
man  entrusted  to  his  care?  Above  all,  would 
he  have  continued  with  a  confession  which 


A  Reciprocal  Challenge          255 

ended  by  putting  him,  with  respect  to  the 
young  man,  in  such  a  position  of  moral 
inferiority? 

4 'Since  we  have  got  to  the  point  of  asking 
each  other  for  words  of  honour,"  he  began, 
"I  will  reply  to  your  question,  my  dear 
Ernest,  after  you  yourself  have  answered  a 
question  of  mine.  Ah!  so  it  is  as  a  represen- 
tative of  Mme.  Ortegue's  family  that  you 
claim  to  have  the  right  of  controlling  my  house- 
hold? Well,  give  me  your  word  of  honour, 
in  your  turn,  that  you  are  not  in  love  with  my 
wife." 

"Cousin!"  cried  Le  Gallic,  raising  himself 
up  in  his  surprise  and  indignation.  He 
repeated:  "Cousin!" 

"Ha!  ha!"  continued  Ortegue,  with  a  burst 
of  savage  laughter,  and  in  a  tone  of  cruel 
triumph.  You  don't  give  me  your  word! 
You  cannot!  .  .  .  So  you  love  her!  ..." 

"Cousin!"  said  Le  Gallic  for  the  third 
time,  and  in  what  a  tone! 

"You  love  her!"  resumed  the  other,  com- 
pletely beside  himself.  "And  it  is  not  merely 


256  The  Night  Cometh 

to-day  that  I've  learnt  it.  I've  known  it  for 
a  long  time.  There  was  a  difference.  Form- 
erly, you  had  no  hope  of  anything.  You 
felt  yourself  to  be  a  little  boy  by  the  side  of 
the  man  that  I  was  .  .  .  that  I  was!"  he 
repeated.  "It  was  two  months  ago,  on  the 
occasion  of  your  visit  here,  that  you  began  to 
say  to  yourself — I  read  the  shameful  thing  in 
your  mind — 'If  she  were  to  become  free.' 
And  then  you  were  wounded;  you  got  your- 
self sent  here,  in  order  to  see  her  again.  I've 
told  you  what  I  believe,  that  you  may  live, 
whereas  I  ...  You  had  no  need  to  be  a 
doctor  to  know  that  I  am  going  to  die,  and 
then  .  .  .  Then,  understand,  that  shall  not 
be.  For  my  wife,  does  not  love  you.  It  is  I 
whom  she  loves,  and  she  is  going  to  leave  with 
me  for  ever.  She  has  offered  to  do  so.  I 
have  accepted.  You  shall  not  take  her  from 
me.  I  am  keeping  her  .  .  .  Really!  you 
claim  to  defend  her  against  me? 

"When  she  comes  in,  ask  her  to  come  here. 
Tell  her  that  I  am  going  to  kill  myself,  that 
I've  told  you  so,  that  I  have  also  told  you 


A  Reciprocal  Challenge          257 

that  she  wishes  to  die  with  me,  and  that  we 
have  made  the  agreement  together.  Make 
her  change  her  mind.  Try.  I  authorize  you 
to  do  it.  I  don't  know  where  my  head  could 
have  been  just  now  when  I  was  astonished 
at  her  not  being  here.  She  has  gone  to  the 
Place  des  Etats-Unis  to  do  what  I  did  here 
this  morning — put  everything  in  order  as  for 
a  journey  ...  It  is  a  journey,  but  without 
a  return  .  .  .  Only,  since  you  love  her  and 
I  have  always  been  good  to  you,  Ernest,  you 
might  have  refrained  from  coming  here  to  spoil 
our  last  hours. " 

"I  did  not  come  here,  Cousin,"  replied  Le 
Gallic;  "they  sent  me  without  my  asking.  I 
regretted  it,  I  may  tell  you,  until  now." 

And,  turning  towards  me,  he  continued: 
uDr.  Marsal,  will  you  give  me  that  cru- 
cifix." 

He  pointed  to  an  ivory  Christ,  a  piece  of 
modern  work  and  very  simple,  which  he  had 
had  hung  on  the  wall,  opposite  his  bed,  in 
order  to  have  it  constantly  before  his  eyes. 
I  handed  it  to  him.  He  clasped  his  hands 

171 


258  The  Night  Cometh 

around  the  black  wood  of  the  little  cross,  raised 
it  slowly  to  his  lips,  kissed  the  nail  which 
pierced  the  feet,  and  said: 

"Thank  you,  Doctor.  I  am  glad  that  you 
are  here,  to  be  present  at  the  oath  I  am  about 
to  take.  .  .  .  Michel,"  he  now  addressed 
Ortegue,  with  a  fraternal  appellation  the  un- 
expected gentleness  of  which  astonished  the 
enraged  man,  who  raised  his  head.  "Michel, 
on  this  image  of  the  Lord,  I  swear  to  you  that  I 
have  never  in  my  life  uttered  a  word — a  single 
word — to  Catherine  which  you  might  not 
have  heard.  If  the  thought  has  ever  crossed 
my  mind  that  she  might  some  day  be  free  and 
become  my  wife,  I  swear  that  that  thought 
was  involuntary,  and  that  I  dismissed  it — 
you  being  alive — as  a  criminal  temptation. 
This  Christ  of  my  first  communion  is  a  witness 
that  I  asked  Him  for  the  strength  to  resist, 
and  that  He  has  given  it  me.  Formerly,  I 
asked  Him  for  the  strength  to  be  happy  for 
Catherine's  happiness,  when  that  happiness 
came  from  you,  and  I  loved  her  passionately. 
For  it  is  true,  I  loved  her  passionately,  solely. 


A  Reciprocal  Challenge          259 

Yes,  I  have  prayed  that  she  might  be  happy 
in  this  world  through  you,  and,  in  dying,  I 
shall  offer  my  sacrifice  that  she  may  be  happy 
in  the  other  world,  in  which  I  believe.  Behold 
how  I  loved  and  love  her. 

"And  you,  Michel,  look  now  how  you  love 
her,  and  at  the  act  which  you  are  going  to 
make  her  commit.  You  say  that  she  has 
offered  to  kill  herself  with  you.  You  ought 
not  to  accept  that  offer.  We  need  no  longer 
choose  our  words  carefully.  You  are  sacri- 
ficing her  to  an  abominable  egoism.  You 
believe  only  in  this  life,  and  you  take  away 
the  joys  she  may  still  have  in  it,  because  she 
will  not  share  them  with  you!  .  .  .  And  then, 
this  life!  ...  If  there  were  but  one  chance 
out  of  a  thousand,  out  of  ten  thousand,  out 
of  a  million  in  favour  of  another,  you  have 
the  right,  as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  to  set 
that  unique  chance  at  defiance,  but  for  your- 
self alone.  You  may  say  to  yourself:  'I  kill 
myself  and  run  the  risk.  I  believe  that  death 
is  nothingness.  If  there  is  a  God  and  He 
punishes  me,  that  is  my  affair/  So  be  it. 


260  The  Night  Cometh 

All  the  same,  you  are  not  sure  that  death  is 
nothingness.  That  is  only  an  idea  of  your 
brain.  It  is  not  based  on  experiment — you 
who  believe  only  in  experimentation.  I  tell 
you  that  you  are  advancing  towards  a  terrible 
punishment.  Go;  but  do  not  lead  any  other 
person  to  it.  If  you  are  determined  to  kill 
yourself,  Michel,  do  not  carry  with  you  and 
upon  you  the  burden  of  the  suicide  of  the  one 
whom  you  claim  to  love.  Do  not  drag  that 
beautiful  soul  to  perdition/' 

He  again  lay  back  in  his  bed,  exhausted  by 
the  effort  of  this  long  and  passionate  speech, 
and  said  in  an  undertone: 

"Everything  is  swimming  round — every- 
thing. Ah!  How  painful  it  is! " 

This  animal  cry  from  the  sick  man,  follow- 
ing so  suddenly  on  the  elevated  mysticism  of 
his  declaration  and  oath,  rendered  me  con- 
scious of  the  material  situation,  and,  as  he 
added,  "It's  nothing;  the  dizziness  is  over," 
I  said  to  Ortegue: 

"Mon  '  cher  maiire,  let  us  go  and  leave 
M.  Le  Gallic  to  rest." 


A  Reciprocal  Challenge          261 

Ortegue  rose,  took  a  step  towards  the  door, 
and  then,  turning,  said: 

"I  am  going,  but  not  before  I  have  declared 
on  my  honour,  before  him  and  before  you, 
Marsal,  that  I  have  left,  leave  and  will  leave 
my  wife  perfectly  free  to  follow  me  or  not, 
the  day  I  decide  to  finish  with  it.  You  are 
an  honest  man,  Ernest,  but  I  am  conscious  of 
being  one  also." 


XXVII 

RELINQU1SHMENT 

"DUN  and  fetch  Renard,"  said  Ortegue 
1  \  to  me,  when  we  were  barely  out  of  the 
room  and  the  door  had  closed.  "He  must 
remain  by  Le  Gallic's  side.  I  hope  that  dizzi- 
ness is  nothing;  but  in  the  case  of  these  head 
wounds  we  have  sometimes  nasty  surprises 
— latent  infections  which  affect  the  base. 
And  when  the  bulb  is  attacked!  ...  In 
short,  it  is  more  prudent  to  place  him  under 
observation.  Act  quickly  and  rejoin  me  in 
my  office/' 

After  taking  a  minimum  of  time  to  find  the 
student  and  put  him  in  charge  of  the  wounded 
man,  with  the  necessary  instructions,  I  once 
more  knocked  at  the  study  door.  The  fit  of 
jealousy  was  not  entirely  over.  Ortegue  was 

about  to  continue  his  inquiry.     While  waiting 

262 


Relinquishment  263 

for  me  he  had  set  to  work  again  to  arrange 
his  papers.  I  have  often  noticed  that  auto- 
matism operates  that  way  in  crises;  that  it  is 
all  the  more  mechanical  the  more  violent  they 
are.  May  this  not  be  an  act  of  defence  on 
the  part  of  nature,  which,  in  order  to  com- 
pensate the  disordered  state  of  our  higher  psy- 
chism,  maintains  an  equilibrium  in  our  lower 
psychism?  A  complete  overthrow  would  im- 
mediately result  in  death  or  insanity.  His 
gloved  hands  continued  the  classification 
while  he  questioned  me: 

"Marsal,  why  did  you  go  to  the  Place  des 
Etats-Unis?" 

"Because  I  knew  everything,  mon  cher 
maitre  ..." 

I  then  made  a  complete  confession:  the 
conversation  with  his  wife,  overheard  behind 
the  door — Mme.  Ortegue's  demand  for  silence 
—my  feelings  since  then — how  I  had  hoped 
that  he  himself  would  renounce  the  horrible 
plan — my  awakening  when  he  had  pressed  me 
to  draw  up  in  a  few  hours  his  last  clinical 
notes — my  increasing  suspicions  through  the 


264  The  Night  Cometh 

notary's  visit  and  Mme.  Ortegue's  absence 
.  .  .  And  I  concluded — 

"I  said  to  myself,  if  the  thing  is  true,  she 
will  be  at  home.  So  I  simply  went  there. 
I  arranged  with  no  one;  consulted  no  one. 
There  is  no  conspiracy  around  you.  There 
has  never  been  one." 

"No  conspiracy?"  he  exclaimed.  "But 
what  about  her  request  for  silence?  You 
mentioned  it."  Then,  with  infinite  bitterness, 
"How  alone  one  is!" 

He  stopped  my  protest  and  again  assumed 
an  inquisitorial  tone. 

"So  when  you  reached  the  Place  des  Etats- 
Unis,  she  was  there?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  in  the  little  drawing-room  upstairs. 
She  was  writing." 

"She  handed  you  a  letter  for  me?  Give  it 
to  me  .  .  .  give  it  me  at  once  .  .  ." 

"  Mon  cher  matire,  it  was  not  a  letter  she 
was  writing.  She  has  handed  me  nothing  for 
you." 

"But,  after  all,  you  talked.  You  ques- 
tioned her.  She  replied.  You  left  her.  You 


Relinquishment  265 

returned  here  and  sought  for  me.  Answer 
me,  yes  or  no,  has  she  given  you  a  message 
for  me?  What  is  it?  I  want  to  know." 

"She  has  not  entrusted  me  with  anything. 
She  hardly  said  two  or  three  words  to  me. 
She  was  in  a  state  of  despair.  She  had,  as 
happens  in  these  moments  of  great  distress, 
scribbled  a  few  phrases  upon  paper.  She 
showed  them  to  me,  because  she  could  not 
speak.  I  read  the  document.  I  fled  with  it. 
I  have  brought  it  to  you.  But,  let  me  repeat 
it  once  more,  she  did  not  send  it  to  you.  She 
would  have  asked  its  return  if  she  had  had 
the  strength.  She  had  not.  But  there  is 
here,  in  this  document,  a  soul's  cry — her  cry, 
and  you  must  hear  it." 

I  had  drawn  the  sheet  of  paper  from  my 
pocket.  Ortegue  snatched  it  from  me  and 
began  to  read,  muttering  savagely: 

"At  last  I  shall  know!" 

I  had  once  the  terrible  curiosity  to  witness 
an  execution.  I  went  to  it.  But  I  did  not 
see  it.  I  saw  neither  the  knife  descend,  nor 
the  head  fall.  My  eyes  closed  at  that  very 


266  The  Night  Cometh 

second.  A  similar  feeling  of  horror  seized  me 
in  the  presence  of  Ortegue's  reading  those 
pages  of  despair  written  by  his  wife,  and  I 
turned  away  my  eyes.  I  was  obliged  to  strike 
him  that  blow.  To  look  at  him  whilst  he 
received  it  was  beyond  my  power. 

I  was  wrong.  Nothing  was  to  be  lost  of 
that  last  lesson — after  so  many  others  which 
this  extraordinary  man  gave  me:  the  lesson 
of  a  magnanimous  heart  judging  and  con- 
demning itself,  and  thus  affirming,  by  its 
noble  reaction,  a  whole  order  of  realities  denied 
by  his  intelligence.  It  was  truly  a  pathetic 
commentary  on  the  celebrated  saying:  "The 
heart  has  reasons  which  reason  cannot  accept." 
This  absolute  determinist,  in  blaming  himself 
for  certain  acts,  recognized — yet  did  not 
realize  that  he  did  so — the  facts  of  moral 
obligation  and  free  will.  This  phenomenist, 
to  whom  thought  and  feeling  were  accidents, 
proclaimed — and  yet  did  not  understand— 
the  respect  which  one  person  owes  another. 
This  man  who  denied  the  existence  of  a 
spiritual  universe  moved  wholly  in  it  at 


Relinquishment  267 

that  moment,  despite  the  weight  of  his  dolor- 
ous flesh,  despite  the  slavery  of  his  long 
intoxication. 

I  expected  him  to  burst  forth  into  revolt 
and  anger,  to  give  way  to  acts  of  violence 
like  that  of  which  he  had  just  given  the 
deplorable  spectacle  at  Le  Gallic's  bedside. 
Filled  with  astonishment,  I  listened  to  him 
speak  to  me  with  extraordinary  calm  and  a 
voice  to  which  the  recollection  of  his  wife 
brought  nothing  but  tenderness — a  disinter- 
ested, I  was  going  to  say  disincarnated,  ten- 
derness. For  it  was  indeed  a  voice  from  beyond 
the  tomb,  and  one  which  stirs  me  even  now 
when  I  recall  it !  On  the  point  of  setting  down 
these  novissima  verba — his  true  last  will  and 
testament — and  which  he  desired  me  to  collect, 
I  have  to  stop.  The  pen  trembles  in  my  hand. 

"Marsal,"  he  began,  in  the  same  tone  of 
stoical  intellectualism  which  he  adopted  when 
setting  forth,  in  that  same  study,  the  diagnosis 
of  his  cancer,  "have  I  not  been  fairly  correct, 
all  my  life,  in  believing  only  in  facts?  How 
facts  bring  you  down  to  reality.  For  weeks 


268  The  Night  Cometh 

past  I  have  been  floundering  about  in  a  state 
of  uncertainty,  in  the  world  of  imagination. 
I  did  not  know.  Now  I  do  know  and  am 
delivered.  Since  you  heard  my  conversation 
with  my  poor  wife,  you  understand  every- 
thing: I  doubted  her  love,  she  wished  to  give 
me  a  proof  of  it,  and  I  wished  to  see  it  as  a 
fact.  It  was  one,  but  not  the  one  I  thought 
it  was.  On  the  part  of  her  generous  heart,  it 
was  an  outburst  of  admirable  pity.  It  was 
not  love.  And  then  I  doubted  again,  and, 
because  of  that,  committed  a  crime — yes,  a 
crime.  Not  in  accepting  the  offer  of  the 
double  suicide.  I  don't  reproach  myself  for 
that.  I  had  the  right  to  accept  a  love  offer- 
ing. In  our  case — ephemeral,  and  one  might 
almost  say  illusory  beings  that  we  are — the 
evil  is  suffering;  the  good  is  happiness  and 
above  all  love — love  by  means  of  which  every- 
one of  us  can  overstep  his  limit,  mingle  with 
another  being,  and,  through  it,  with  the 
universal. 

"You  see,  Marsal,  knowledge  is  formed  from 
age  to  age,  it  is  hardly  outlined;  whereas  love 


Relinquishment  2  69 

is  an  instantaneous  possession,  but  full  and 
superabundant  of  everything  which  surpasses 
us.  It  is  our  minute  of  eternity.  We  cannot 
separate  ourselves  from  the  being  who  gives 
us  that.  He  is  the  apple  of  our  eye,  the  mar- 
row of  our  bones,  our  inexhaustible  and  all- 
sufficient  treasure.  And  if  he  love  us  also, 
it  is  so  natural,  so  legitimate  that  he  should 
wish  to  die  when  we  die!  No.  I  do  not 
reproach  myself  for  having  said  ' Thank  you* 
to  my  wife  and  for  having  accepted  her 
offer. 

"My  crime  consists,  when  I  had  a  presenti- 
ment that  she  no  longer  loved  me,  in  having 
demanded  the  carrying  out  of  that  promise. 
Why?  To  test  her.  And  that,  you  see,  was 
hideous — abominable.  To  accept  her  death, 
even  to  aid  her,  in  order  that  we  might  pass 
away  together,  loving  each  other,  was  the 
supreme  ecstasy  of  our  happiness.  To  risk 
what  I  have  risked,  Marsal — the  killing  of 
herself  through  pity  for  me  in  a  lie  imposed 
upon  her  by  my  mistrust — was  murder." 

"Well,  then,  mon  cher  maitre"   I  hinted, 


270  The  Night  Cometh 

"be  logical.  You  no  longer  accept  the  idea 
of  her  dying  with  you?  .  .  ." 

"Haven't  you  understood  me,  then?"  he 
interrupted. 

"Yes,  mon  cher  maitre',and  it  is  precisely 
because  I  have  understood  you  that  I  have 
this  to  say  to  you:  Do  better  than  liberate  her 
from  an  insane  promise.  Assist  her — it  is 
within  your  power — to  recover  her  moral 
health  by  returning  to  it  yourself." 

"You  are  referring  to  that  scene  of  jealousy 
I  made  before  Le  Gallic, — he  a  wounded  man 
and  I  his  doctor?  Believe  me,  I  regret  it 
bitterly.  I  was  mad.  .  .  ." 

"It  is  not  Le  Gallic  who  is  in  question.  It 
is  yourself.  Confess  that  a  sick  man  like  you 
— physically  diseased  but  mentally  in  good 
health — would  long  since  have  sought  a 
remedy  for  his  ailment." 

"There  isn't  one.     You  know  that." 

"There  is  a  palliative.  You  would  have 
advised,  ordered  it  immediately  to  a  patient 
whose  case  you  had  diagnosed  as  you  have 
diagnosed  your  own." 


Relinquishment  271 

"An  intervention?"  he  asked,  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

"Yes,  an  intervention.  You  spoke  to  me 
about  it  once,  to  reject  it,  and  in  such  terms 
that  I  didn't  dare  to  broach  the  subject  again. 
To-day  I  don't  mind  what  I  say.  This  inter- 
vention is  efficacious,  whatever  you  may 
maintain.  Recollect  Dieulafoy's  two  splendid 
lessons  on  cancer  of  the  pancreas  and  the 
history  of  his  Portuguese,  who,  thanks  to  the 
operation,  secured  months  and  months  of  per- 
fect health.  Promise  me  that  you  will  have 
a  consultation,  and  if  our  confreres — you  can 
choose  them  yourself — are  of  the  opinion  it 
is  necessary  to  operate,  that  you  will  allow 
yourself  to  be  operated  on?" 

"I  no  longer  say  no,"  he  replied.  "Why 
not  indeed?  ...  But  there  is  a  more  urgent 
operation,  Marsal, — that  of  reassuring  my 
poor  wife.  I  am  thinking  of  the  agony  through 
which  she  is  passing  at  this  moment.  She 
has  not  come  back.  You  must  go  and  fetch 
her.  Moreover,  it  is  preferable  that  you 
should  see  her  before  I  do  and  speak  to  her. 


272  The  Night  Cometh 

I  could  not  do  so,  immediately  and  under  the 
influence  of  so  many  emotions.  .  .  .  Marsal, 
where  are  our  heads?  Let  us  find  first  of  all 
if  she  is  still  there. " 

He  had  already  taken  the  movable  tele- 
phone standing  on  his  desk  and  was  asking 
the  door-keeper  of  the  Place  des  Etats-Unis 
if  Mme.  Ortegue  was  still  there. 

" She  has  not  left,'*  he  said.  "  Come  to  the 
apparatus,  Marsal,"  and  he  handed  me  one 
of  the  receivers.  "Call  her  up.  She  has  a 
telephone  in  her  little  drawing-room.  You 
must  reassure  her  immediately.  You  must 
spare  her  an  excess  of  anguish.  Tell  her  that 
you  have  handed  me  her  letter,  for  it  was 
indeed  a  letter  which  she  had  not  the  courage 
to  send  me.  Tell  her  that  I  am  quite  calm, 
that  I  await  her,  and  that,  at  my  request,  you 
are  going  to  fetch  her  and  tell  her  every- 
thing." 

"May  I  even  tell  her  that  you  are  willing 
to  undergo  an  operation,  if  it  is  recognized 
as  possible?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like.     But  reassure  her." 


Relinquishment  273 

While  we  were  exchanging  these  few  words, 
the  door-keeper  had  transmitted  the  communi- 
cation to  the  interior  of  the  house.  A  voice, 
which  I  recognized  as  Mme.  Ortegue's,  replied. 
''Here  she  is,"  I  was  about  to  say  to  Ortegue, 
when  I  saw  that  he  had  seized  the  other  re- 
ceiver. "I  trust  that  she  will  not  say  any- 
thing to  hurt  him,"  thought  I;  "I  cannot 
stop  her ! ' '  Then,  aloud : 

"Is  that  you,  Madam?  I  have  spoken  to 
the  Professor.  I  have  given  him  what  you 
wrote.  He  has  read  it  and  he  asks  you  to  be 
calm.  ...  He  is  sending  me  to  fetch  you. 
I  am  coming  at  once.  I  will  tell  you  about 
our  conversation.  It  will  do  you  good.  .  .  . 
Meanwhile,  once  more,  be  easy  in  your 
mind.  .  .  ." 

"But  tell  me,  how  is  he?"  asked  the  voice, 
stifled  with  emotion. 

"Better.  Reading  what  you  wrote  to  me 
delivered  him.  That  was  the  expression  he 
used.  He  will  be  so  happy  to  see  you!" 

"Get  her  to  speak  again,"  whispered  Or- 
tegue to  me,  "so  that  I  can  hear  her  voice 


274  The  Night  Cometh 

once  more.  Explain  to  her  why  I  do  not 
speak  myself.  Find  a  reason." 

"Are  you  still  there,  Madam?  The  Pro- 
fessor asks  if  you  are  easier  in  your  mind?" 

"Yes,  yes.     But  what  about  himself?" 

"He  would  like  to  speak  to  you  through  the 
telephone.  He  directs  me  to  tell  you  that 
he  has  not  sufficient  strength.  He  is  too 
overcome.  He  begs  you  not  to  torment 
yourself  either  over  that  or  anything  else." 

"Ah!     Thank  him,  and  come  quickly." 

"How  many  times,  Marsal,"  saidOrtegue, 
as  he  hung  up  the  receiver,  "have  I  come 
here,  to  this  telephone,  between  two  operations, 
to  ring  her  up  and  listen  to  her  voice  as  I  did 
just  now,  to  feel  that  she  was  in  our  home, 
happy,  and  that  she  trusted  me!  How  re- 
freshing to  get  a  few  words  from  her  mouth! 
But  be  off,  Marsal.  When  one  is  waiting, 
seconds  are  years,  and  when  one  recollects, 
years  are  seconds.  Go  quickly,  as  she  asks." 


XXVIII 

THE     TRAGEDY     IN     RUE     SAINT     GUILLAUME 

TWENTY  minutes  later  I  was  at  the  Place 
des  Etats-Unis.  Mme.  Ortegue  was 
awaiting  my  arrival  before  the  door  of  the 
house.  When  my  taxi  turned  the  corner  of 
the  square,  she  recognized  me  through  the 
window  and  came  towards  me.  She  was 
another  woman.  Merely  from  her  look  I 
could  not  fail  recognizing  that  the  whole  of 
her  vital  energy  had  been  concentrated  during 
those  few  hours  in  a  deep  and  humble  feeling, 
an  animal-like  fear  of  death.  From  her  eyes, 
wild  with  anxiety  a  short  time  before,  there 
now  streamed  a  warm  and  mysterious  radi- 
ance. She  was  going  to  live.  Her  half -open 
mouth  seemed  to  breathe  the  air  of  deliver- 
ance greedily.  Hardly  had  I  shouted  to  the 

chauffeur  to  stop  than  she  had  already  climbed 

275 


276  The  Night  Cometh 

into  the  automobile,  herself  giving  the  address 
in  Rue  Saint  Guillaume.  For  a  short  time 
she  remained  without  speaking;  then,  in  a 
timorous  tone,  in  which  there  was  a  last 
trace  of  anxiety,  said : 

"So  he  wishes  to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  to  set  your  mind  at  rest,  to  sustain 
you,  to  explain  that  he  understands  you.  Ah ! 
if  you  had  been  there  while  he  read  your  words ! ' ' 

"  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  bear  it.  I 
should  have  been  too  full  of  shame." 

"Not  at  all.  In  writing  them  you  were 
truthful  and  you  have  brought  him  back  to 
the  truth." 

"Because  he  agrees  in  the  breaking  of  my 
word?  You  call  my  cowardice  the  truth! 
How  much  he  must  despise  me,  Marsal." 

"He  has  never  loved  you  so  much,  and  the 
proof  of  this  is,  that  he  wishes  to  try  to  live. 
You  know  that  he  would  not  accept  even  the 
idea  of  an  operation." 

"He  has  made  up  his  mind  to  it?" 

"Yes.  You  see  indeed  that  you  have 
changed  him." 


Tragedy  in  Rue  Saint  Guillaume  277 

"An  operation!  That  is  true.  Why  didn't 
I  think  of  it  sooner?  .  .  .  "  she  said,  clasping 
her  hands.  "Why  didn't  I  speak  to  him 
about  it?  How  much  time  has  been  lost! 
We  were  living  in  a  nightmare,  in  a  state  of 
distraction.  Who  knows  now  if  it  is  not  too 
late?  You  don't  think  so,  do  you?  Ah! 
Why  is  it  not  already  done!  When  he  told 
me  everything,  the  day  of  the  Dufour  affair, 
he  was  still  so  strong.  He  would  still  be  strong 
without  morphia — the  poison  which  is  de- 
stroying him.  They  will  cure  that  also. 
They  will  give  him  back  to  me  for  some  time, 
for  a  long  time  perhaps,  and  I  will  indeed 
show  him  that  I  have  not  ceased  to  love  him. 
Only,  I  am  merely  a  woman.  I  have  not  his 
grandeur  of  soul.  He  expected  too  much  of 
me.  It  is  my  fault.  I  expected  too  much 
myself.  It  is  the  same  in  the  case  of  ideas. 
You  remember  when  I  wept.  I  no  longer 
know  what  I  think  or  believe.  There  are 
times  when  you  feel  you  are  being  rolled  along 
by  something  more  powerful  than  yourself. 
You  are,  as  it  were,  under  a  huge  wave.  You 


278  The  Night  Cometh 

can  only  close  your  eyes  and  let  yourself 
drift." 

She  spoke  in  that  manner,  giving  me  the 
impression  that  it  was  but  a  little  child  who 
was  by  my  side.  And  I  felt  glad  because  of 
this  weakness,  this  disarray  of  a  will  which  I 
had  known  so  intent,  this  surrender  to  instinct. 
I  was  so  certain  that  the  presence  of  a  poor, 
uncertain,  and  disabled  being  would  have  a 
sovereign  effect  on  Ortegue.  He  would  have 
pity  on  her,  and  this  pity  would  complete  the 
dispersion  of  his  pride  and  despair.  Alas! 
his  victim's  second  sight  was  correct.  It  was 
too  late. 

We  reached  the  Rue  Saint  Guillaume.  As  I 
was  pushing  open  the  small  door  at  the  main 
carriage  entrance  to  allow  Mme.  Ortegue  to 
pass  through,  three  nurses,  who  were  convers- 
ing vivaciously  in  the  courtyard,  suddenly 
stopped  talking  on  seeing  us.  They  turned 
aside  and  followed  my  companion  with  a  look 
which  frightened  me.  I  could  not  question 
them,  not  wishing  to  leave,  for  a  second,  the 
poor  woman,  who  was  almost  running,  without 


Tragedy  in  Rue  Saint  Guillaume  279 

having  noticed  this  little  incident.  The  spect- 
acle presented  by  the  entrance  corridor  was 
too  extraordinary  for  her  not  to  ask  imme- 
diately: "What  has  happened?"  Wounded 
soldiers,  nurses  and  visitors  were  there,  talking 
together,  with  that  sort  of  dismayed  animation 
which  springs  up  around  sudden  catastrophes. 
They  also  stepped  aside  without  replying. 
She  continued  to  run  forward,  and  reached  the 
little  anteroom  to  Ortegue's  study.  There 
she  ran  up  against  Dr.  Quenaut,  who  was 
leaving  the  latter  room,  and  who  stopped  her, 
saying: 

"  Do  not  go  in,  Madam.  The  Professor  has 
just  fainted.  Renard  is  attending  to  him. 
He  will  come  to.  But  do  not  go  in.  Marsal, 
prevent  Madam  from  entering." 

She  uttered  a  piercing  cry:  "He  is  dead!" 
And  pushing  us  to  one  side — Quenaut  as  well 
as  myself — with  irresistible  strength,  she 
rushed  into  the  study. 

Ortegue  was  stretched  on  the  divan  on 
which  I  recollected  having  auscultated  him 
two  months  before,  his  mouth  half  open,  and 


280  The  Night  Cometh 

not  a  breath  coming  from  it,  his  eyelids  half 
closed,  with  no  expression  lighting  up  his 
glassy  eyes.  Mme.  Ortegue  uttered  a  second 
cry,  still  more  piercing,  and,  throwing  herself 
on  her  husband,  began  to  press  him  to  her 
arms,  covering  with  kisses  and  tears  that 
motionless  and  ravaged  face  the  infinite  sad- 
ness of  which  would  never  more  be  dissipated 
by  her  caresses. 

"Better  leave  her  alone,"  said  I  to  Quenaut 
and  Renard,  who  were  remaining  there,  in  a 
state  of  hesitation.  The  other  people  had 
withdrawn.  I  pushed  them  both  into  the 
antechamber  and  asked  in  a  low  voice: 

"  How  did  it  happen?  " 

"We  don't  know  much  more  than  you  do/' 
said  Qu6naut.  "We  were  upstairs,  Renard 
and  I,  with  Lieutenant  Le  Gallic,  who,  by  the 
way,  is  going  fast.  Indeed,  Renard,  you  had 
better  go  up  to  him  at  once.  I  will  join  you. 
An  excited  attendant  came  rushing  up  to  us 
to  say  that,  when  passing  under  Ortegue's 
windows,  he  had  heard  groans,  that  he  had 
gone  in  and  found  the  Professor  unconscious. 


Tragedy  in  Rue  Saint  Guillaume  281 

We  descended.  The  unfortunate  man  was 
already  in  a  comatose  state.  He  died  almost 
immediately.  You  know  he  abused  the  use 
of  morphia.  He  must  have  given  himself 
too  strong  a  dose.  Such  things  happen.  .  .  . 
Poor  woman !" 

The  sound  of  a  sob  came  to  us  from  the 
adjoining  room — so  violent  that  it  made  me 
anxious. 

"You,  also,  return  to  the  lieutenant,  my 
dear  confrere,'1  said  I  to  Quenaut.  "I  will  try 
to  calm  her/* 

I  had  a  reason  of  my  own  for  getting  rid  of 
this  witness.  I  trembled  at  the  thought  that 
Mme.  Ortegue,  in  her  frenzied  grief,  might  let 
drop  some  revealing  word.  The  painful  con- 
jugal drama  was  solved  by  this  death.  For 
the  honour  of  Ortegue's  memory,  these  cruel 
events  must  be  enveloped  in  eternal  secrecy. 
Fortunately  Quenaut's  sense  of  professional 
duty  was  stronger  than  his  curiosity. 

"I  will  leave  you,  then/'  he  said.  "Espe- 
cially as  the  patient  up  there  is  in  a  serious 
condition:  weakening  of  the  pulse,  anxiety, 


282  The  Night  Cometh 

dizziness,  pallor,  Cheyne-Stokes's  breathing; 
in  short,  bulbary  syndrome  as  clear  as  day- 
light. Moreover,  Ortegue  feared  it.  I  should 
have  operated  on  him,  you  know,  and  as  soon 
as  he  arrived  here.  The  toleration  of  pro- 
jectiles in  the  brain  is  theoretical.  I  should 
also  have  operated  upon  Ortegue.  I  have 
often  told  you  so,  and  I  was  right.  I  should 
have  united  his  biliary  vesicle  with  an  in- 
testinal loop.  His  jaundice  would  have  been 
swept  away.  His  sufferings  would  have  dis- 
appeared at  least  for  months.  It  is  astound- 
ing that  a  master-surgeon  such  as  he  should 
have  preferred  the  brutalizing  influence  of 
morphia  and  all  its  dangers.  ...  But  hear 
how  she  is  groaning.  Ah!  how  she  did  love 
him!" 

He  had  barely  left  the  room  when  I  entered 
the  office.  Mme.  Ortegue  was  still  pressing 
the  body  to  her  bosom.  I  took  her  by  the 
arms  and  tried  to  drag  her  from  it.  She  let 
me  do  so,  as  though  the  nervous  attack  of  the 
first  moments  of  her  grief  was  changing  to 
passiveness,  which,  through  her  distress  and 


Tragedy  in  Rue  Saint  Guillaume  283 

wildness,  was  still  more  terrifying.  As  I  was 
leading  her  away  from  the  divan  on  which 
Ortegue  lay,  holding  her  hands  in  mine,  she 
turned  her  head  towards  him,  and,  with  con- 
vulsed face  and  haggard  eyes,  repeated  inces- 
santly: 

"He  killed  himself.  He  killed  himself 
through  me.  He  died  in  despair  through  me. 
It  is  my  fault.  He  died  because  of  my  horrible 
cowardice.  Ah!  Marsal,  why  did  you  show 
him  that  paper?  I  did  not  ask  you  to  do 
anything." 

"Not  at  all,  Madam.  He  has  not  killed 
himself,"  I  replied — lying  to  her.  I  under- 
stood so  well  now  why  Ortegue  had  got  me 
out  of  the  way,  and  his  tragic  determination 
to  commit  suicide,  alone  and  in  silence — a 
suicide  which  might  pass  for  a  natural  death, 
even  to  my  eyes,  even,  and  above  all,  to  those 
of  his  wife.  She  no  longer  loved  him  as  he 
wished  to  be  loved.  He  had  held  the  proof 
of  it  in  his  hand.  Suddenly,  he  had  decided 
to  put  an  end  to  everything  immediately, 
without  seeing  her  again.  The  movement  he 


284  The  Night -Cometh 

made  when  he  took  the  telephone  receiver 
to  hear  that  adored  voice  once  more  returned 
to  my  memory  and  rended  my  heart,  while 
I  continued  my  useless  imposture. 

"Reason  a  little,  Madam.  If  he  had  killed 
himself,  he  would  have  left  you  a  few  words, 
—here,  for  you  to  find.  .  .  ."  I  pointed  to 
the  table,  and,  displacing  the  papers,  added: 
"You  see  there  is  nothing/' 

"Why  should  he  have  written  to  me? 
What  had  he  to  say?" 

"But  he  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  you 
again,"  I  insisted. 

"He  could  not  bear  it.  I  had  wounded  him 
too  deeply.  Ah!  why  did  you  show  him  those 
words?" 

"Wounded  him  too  deeply?  If  only  you 
had  heard  him  speak  of  you  after  reading  what 
you  wrote — with  what  tenderness  and  impa- 
tience he  looked  forward  to  having  you  here 
and  reassuring  you!"  In  recalling  the  atti- 
tude of  indulgent  gentleness  which  Ortegue 
had  indeed  displayed,  how  clearly  I  recognized 
its  heroism  and  martyrdom!  I  also  felt  that 


Tragedy  in  Rue  Saint  Guillaume  285 

I  was  not  deceiving  this  woman,  who  listened 
to  me  with  her  eyes  ever  fixed  on  the  dead 
man.  However,  I  insisted: 

' '  No.  He  did  not  commit  suicide.  Neither 
Qu6naut  nor  I  know  how  he  met  his  death. 
But  it  is  evident  that  it  is  an  episode  of  his 
disease.  Embolism,  congestion  of  the  brain, 
stoppage  of  the  heart — there  are  twenty 
possible  explanations.  .  .  ." 

"I  shall  soon  know,"  she  said,  escaping 
from  me  and  going  towards  the  drawer  of  the 
desk  I  knew  so  well,  and  in  which  Ortegue 
kept  his  morphia.  A  key,  attached  to  a  bunch, 
remained  in  it,  "You  see,"  she  cried,  "he 
opened  this  drawer.  Our  poison  was  there." 

She  pulled  at  the  key  violently.  In  one 
of  the  compartments  her  eye  caught  sight  of 
a  little  bottle,  which  she  seized.  It  contained 
a  white  powder,  and  as  she  raised  it  to  the 
light  coming  from  the  window,  I  was  able  to 
read  on  the  label  the  redoubtable  formula 
K  C  N — that  of  cyanide  of  potassium.  The 
bottle  was  full  to  the  top,  and  the  cork  sealed. 
Mme.  Ortegue  murmured : 


286  The  Night  Cometh 

"Our  poison!  He  has  not  touched  it!" 
Fortunately,  in  the  excitement  of  verifying 
this  first  suspicion,  she  had  overlooked  what 
I  had  noticed,  with  terror — a  large  hypodermic 
syringe,  placed  in  a  compartment.  A  small 
quantity  of  liquid  was  still  to  be  seen  in  it. 
This  liquid,  I  have  since  found  out,  was 
morphia.  Quenaut  had  judged  the  fact  accu- 
rately, without  understanding  its  significance. 
Ortegue  had  employed  the  simplest  method 
of  committing  suicide,  but  at  the  same  time 
the  one  most  difficult  to  discover;  he  had 
injected  a  deadly  dose  of  his  habitual  poison. 
He  had  had  the  strength  to  replace  the  instru- 
ment of  death,  to  dress  again,  and  to  go  and 
stretch  himself  on  his  divan.  The  whole 
picture  was  formed  in  my  mind  with  such 
clearness  that  I  also  could  have  cried  out.  I 
succeeded  in  mastering  myself,  and,  pushing 
the  drawer  in,  as  it  were  mechanically,  I  said 
to  Mme.  Ortegue: 

"You  see,  Madam,  that  the  bottle  is  intact 
proof  of  what  I  say." 
He  killed  himself  in  some  other  way.     He 


Tragedy  in  Rue  Saint  Guillaume  287 

hoped  that  I  would  not  understand,  that  I 
should  believe  it  was  an  accident.  He  acted 
generously,  as  he  always  did.  But  he  did 
not  want  to  see  me  again." 

She  had  sunk  into  an  arm-chair.  Her  two 
hands  clasped  the  little  bottle,  and  I  heard  her 
moaning : 

"Or  else  he  rejected  the  poison  he  had 
prepared  for  both  of  us." 

Drawing  near  to  her,  I  said  very  gently, 
"Madam,  you  must  give  me  that  bottle." 

She  made  no  reply,  save  by  shaking  her 
head,  and  at  the  same  time  she  pressed  her 
two  hands,  which  were  still  holding  the  bottle, 
to  her  bosom.  I  insisted : 

"Madam,  you  must  give  it  to  me.  I  ask 
you  in  the  name  of  your  husband,  whose  last 
wish,  expressed  to  me  in  this  very  room,  an 
hour  ago,  was  that  you  should  live." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  placed  the  arm-chair 
between  herself  and  me,  and,  holding  the 
bottle  still  more  tightly,  said: 

"I  hope  you  don't  intend  to  take  it  from 
me  by  force." 


XXIX 

COMBATING   A  DIRE   RESOLUTION 

THIS  short  and  terrible  scene  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  arrival  of  the  only  person 
before  whom  it  could  continue,  considering  his 
priestly  character — the  Abbe  Courmont,  who 
had  been  sent  (his  first  words  informed  me  of 
that)  by  the  dying  Le  Gallic,  whom  he  had 
just  attended.  He  entered  and  immediately 
saw  this  picture,  only  too  significant  after  the 
revelations  which  his  penitent  had  certainly 
made  to  him — the  dead  man  on  the  divan,  I, 
distracted,  in  an  imploring  attitude;  Mme. 
Ortegue,  taking  refuge  behind  the  arm-chair 
and  pressing  the  bottle  of  poison  to  her  bosom, 
in  a  savage  attitude  of  defence. 

"Since  you  are  here,  Monsieur  TAbbeY'  I 
cried,  "assist  me  .  .  ." 

My  outstretched  hands  clearly  indicated 
288 


Combating  a  Dire  Resolution     289 

the  nature  of  the  help  I  demanded.  I  wanted 
to  get  possession  of  the  bottle,  and  without 
delay,  terrified  as  I  was  lest  the  unhappy 
woman  should  break  the  seal  and  kill  herself 
before  us.  A  pinch  of  that  powder,  taken 
even  from  the  hand,  and  all  would  have  been 
over!  I  was  employing — at  this  distance 
of  time  I  still  shudder  at  the  thought — the 
surest  means  of  precipitating  the  catastrophe 
which  I  wished  at  all  cost  to  avoid.  Violence, 
in  the  case  of  a  soul  filled  with  frenzy,  has 
never  aroused  anything  save  violence.  But 
the  priest  had  not  lost  his  calmness.  He 
understood  everything  and  saw  the  danger. 
As  I  was  repeating,  "  Assist  me  .  .  .  "  he 
said,  addressing  Mme.  Ortegue,  and  without 
replying  to  me: 

"Madam,  I  have  learnt  the  terrible  misfor- 
tune. I  have  come  to  pray  by  the  side  of 
your  dear,  dead  husband.  You  will  allow 
me,  won't  you?"  She  made  a  sign  of  assent. 
Whereupon  he  asked:  " Would  you  like  to 
join  with  me  in  my  prayer?" 

She    refused,    shaking   her   head    fiercely. 


290  The  Night  Cometh 

The  Abbe  Courmont  did  not  insist.  He  went 
and  knelt  down  at  the  foot  of  the  divan,  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  began  to  pray.  I 
continued  to  watch  Mme.  Ortegue.  The 
words  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  murmured  by  the 
priest,  came  to  her,  as  to  me,  in  fragments. 
..."  Thy  will  be  done.  .  .  .  Forgive  us  our 
trespasses.  .  .  .  Lead  us  not  into  temptation  .  .  . 
I  saw  that  her  hands  slightly  loosened  their 
hold,  and  that  two  large  tears  were  flowing 
down  her  cheeks. 

What  force  was  acting  upon  her?  I  cannot 
say.  An  energy  emanating  from  a  spiritual 
source,  outside  herself?  Perhaps.  I  admit 
that  that  influence  is  possible.  A  suggestion 
from  the  priest?  I  admit  it  also.  A  new 
and  powerful  recollection,  in  the  presence  of 
this  kneeling  priest  and  this  murmured  prayer 
at  the  side  of  the  dead,  of  the  far-off  impres- 
sions of  childhood?  Again  I  admit  it.  Once 
more,  I  record  the  fact  without  attempting 
to  explain  it.  That  fact,  moreover,  proves 
to  me  that  a  mind  formed  by  religious  dis- 
cipline is  able  to  show  itself  singularly  fit  in 


Combating  a  Dire  Resolution     291 

the  knowledge  and  direct  handling  of  reality. 
For  the  Abb6  Courmont  had  found  the  only 
means  of  arresting  the  unhappy  woman's 
progress  towards  suicide.  But  for  how  long? 

He  rose  from  his  prayer,  and,  in  his  gently 
serious  voice,  said: 

"I  asked  that  peace  might  be  granted  him, 
Madam.  He  worked  so  much,  suffered  so 
much,  loved  so  much.  God  is  good.  He  sees 
what  we  do  not  see.  He  will  give  him  peace. 
Provided  that  .  .  ."  He  stopped,  and,  in 
a  still  gentler,  almost  supplicating  voice, 
continued:  "Madam,  I  came  for  another 
purpose.  Make  an  appeal  to  your  courage. 
Your  cousin  Ernest  is  very  ill,  very  ill.  .  .  . 
His  hours,  perhaps  his  minutes,  are  counted. 
He  would  like  to  see  you.  ..." 

She  shook  her  head,  as  shortly  before,  with 
the  same  movement  of  savage  refusal. 

"Don't  say  no,  Madam,"  interjected  the 
priest.  And,  pointing  to  the  dead  man, 
"When  it  is  on  his  account.  For  I  know  that 
M.  Le  Gallic  wishes  to  speak  to  you  about 
him." 


292  The  Night  Cometh 

She  repeated  the  words:  " About  him?" 
then,  turning  towards  me: 

"Marsal,  they  saw  each  other  to-day ?" 

It  was  the  priest  who  replied :  '  'Yes,  Madam/ ' 

" For  a  long  time?" 

"For  a  long  time.  Go  upstairs,  Madam. 
I  shall  remain  here,  to  watch." 

"I  will  go,"  she  said,  after  a  silence. 

She  had  taken  her  handkerchief  to  dry  her 
tears.  Continuing  to  watch  all  her  move- 
ments, I  noticed  that  she  rolled  the  bottle  of 
cyanide  in  it.  This  action  prompted  me  to 
follow  her  up  the  staircase.  She  entered  the 
bedroom,  and  I  made  ready  to  remain  behind 
in  the  corridor,  to  respect  the  secrecy  of 
this  last  interview.  "She  will  not  kill  her- 
self before  Le  Gallic,"  thought  I.  It  was  he 
who,  having  caught  sight  of  me  behind  Mme. 
Ortegue,  motioned  to  me  to  come  in.  Already 
his  irregular  breathing  no  longer  permitted 
continuous  speech.  It  quickened,  then  slack- 
ened, to  the  point  of  almost  stopping  at 
certain  moments.  In  the  intervals  he  was 
able  to  articulate. 


Combating  a  Dire  Resolution     293 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said  to  Quenaut  and 
Renard,  who  were  standing  near  him,  "I 
have  something  to  say  to  my  cousin.  I  should 
also  like  Dr.  Marsal  to  remain.  .  .  ." 

I  understood  the  secret  reason  for  this  wish 
immediately.  I  knew  enough  for  him  to  be 
able  to  say  certain  words  to  Mme.  Ortegue 
without  teaching  me  anything,  and  my 
presence  was  sufficient  to  prevent  his  being 
tempted  to  utter  others. 

Renard  and  Quenaut  went  out,  but  not 
before  the  latter  had  said  aloud : 

"We  shall  remain  here,  in  the  corridor, 
lieutenant.  Don't  fatigue  yourself  too  much." 

And  to  myself,  in  a  whisper,  near  the  door. 

"Nothing  can  be  done.  The  bulb  is 
attacked.  It's  all  over." 

"Catherine,"  began  the  dying  man,  and 
the  intervals  in  his  breathing  gave  his  broken 
elocution  a  character  still  more  heart-rending 
than  the  actual  phras'es  he  uttered.  It  was 
truly  a  man  in  the  pangs  of  death  who  was 
speaking.  "Catherine,  I  came  to  an  ex- 


294  The  Night  Cometh 

planation  with  Michel  in  the  presence  of  Dr. 
Marsal.  He  told  me  what  you  wished  to  do. 
...  I  know  that  as  regards  his  case  it  is  all 
over.  I  fear  that  you  are  still  of  a  mind  not 
to  survive  him.  .  .  .  Catherine,  you  must  live. 
You  must  for  his  sake.  I,  who  am  on  the 
point  of  death,  affirm  that  there  is  another 
world.  I  feel  it  coming  nearer  and  nearer. 
I  see  it.  I  touch  it  ...  I  know  that  one 
can  suffer  in  this  other  world.  One  suffers  for 
one's  faults;  for  those  one  has  committed. 
One  can  also  be  relieved  by  the  good  will,  by 
the  good  actions  of  the  living.  .  .  .  You  do 
not  know  that  this  is  true.  You  cannot  be 
sure  that  it  is  false.  That  is  what  I  told  your 
husband  to-day.  .  .  .  Reflect  that,  if  it  is 
true,  your  suicide  burdens  your  poor  Michel 
with  a  terrible  load  in  the  other  world.  If  it 
is  true,  reflect  also  that  your  life  may  be  useful, 
bountiful  to  him.  .  .  .  You  see  quite  well 
that  you  ought  to  live.  ...  If  it  is  true,  not 
one  of  the  minutes  you  live  in  patience,  humil- 
ity, and  charity  will  be  lost  to  your  husband. 
Nothing  is  lost  when  one  offers  it.  What  I  am 


Combating  a  Dire  Resolution     295 

suffering  at  this  moment  and  what  I  am  going 
to  suffer  is  not  lost,  because  I  offer  it.  I  offer 
my  death  for  you,  so  that  you  may  be 
enlightened  and  purified,  so  that  you  may 
live.  .  .  ." 

He  also  said: 

"Poor  Catherine!  I  Who  am  about  to  pass 
away  understand  that  your  duty  is  harder 
and  more  difficult  than  mine.  It  is  so  simple 
to  give  everything  at  a  single  stroke.  .  .  . 
But,  you  see,  I  have  suffered  much  before 
reaching  this  hour.  I  know  that  there  is  a 
great  consolation  hidden  in  suffering  that  we 
accept.  .  .  .  Farewell,  Catherine.  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  promise.  You  would  not  like  my 
sacrifice  to  be  useless  to  you.  Farewell! 
Leave  me  with  Him,  with  the  Man  of 
Sorrow.  .  .  ." 

He  pressed  the  crucifix  to  his  breast,  with 
the  same  gesture  of  supreme  recourse  she 
herself  had  made,  but  a  short  time  before, 
when  clasping  the  poison  to  her  bosom. 

"Farewell/'  she  said,  and  bending  over 
the  wounded  man's  forehead,  she  placed  a 


296  The  Night  Cometh 

kiss  upon  it.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  look 
of  gratitude  and  supplication.  His  lips  mur- 
mured a  "  thank  you  "  which  was  no  more  than 
a  breath.  In  view  of  his  loss  of  consciousness, 
I  ran  to  the  door  and  called  to  Quenaut  and 
Renard. 

"Attend  to  him/'  I  said  to  them.  "We 
must  attempt  a  lumbar  puncture.  I  will  come 
up  again  immediately  to  assist  you.  Renard, 
prepare  the  instruments. " 

While  speaking,  I  led  Mme.  Ortegue,  who 
followed  me  with  a  quasi-automatic  step, 
from  the  room.  On  reaching  her  husband's 
study,  where  the  Abbe  Courmont  was  still 
in  prayer  by  the  dead  man's  side,  I  took  her 
hand,  which  continued  to  clasp  the  bottle 
wrapped  in  the  handkerchief.  Her  fingers 
yielded.  I  held  the  poison. 

"You  will  live?"  I  asked  her. 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 


XXX 

WHICH   IS  THE   TRUE? 

SHE  lives.  Weeks  and  weeks  have  passed ; 
six  long  months  since  the  day  on  which, 
still  trembling  under  the  abjuration  of  the 
dying  man,  I  took  the  bottle  of  poison  from 
her.  I  saw  that  she  would  keep  her  promise 
to  live  when  she  expressed  a  wish  to  be  present 
at  Ortegue's  interment  to  the  very  end. 
Three  days  later  she  attended  Le  Gallic's 
funeral  service.  These  two  ceremonies  re- 
sembled each  other  only  in  one  thing:  her 
presence.  Ortegue,  in  a  final  codicil  to  his 
will,  which  explained  to  me  the  devout  notary's 
consternation,  had  made  a  request  for  a  civil 
burial.  His  aversion  to  Le  Gallic  was  doubt- 
less connected  with  this  wish. 

Oh!  that  sad  afternoon  at  the  beginning  of 

November  when  we  took  him  to  the  Passy 

297 


298  The  Night  Cometh 

cemetery!  He  had  had  built  there,  formerly 
— lover  of  magnificence  as  he  was  even  in 
death — a  marble  and  mosaic  monument.  The 
crowd  pressed  behind  the  mortal  remains  of 
the  illustrious  surgeon. 

What  a  contrast  in  every  way  with  the 
humble  funeral  procession  of  the  obscure 
lieutenant!  After  a  low  mass,  said  at  eight 
o' clock  at  St.  Thomas  d'Aquin,  we  conveyed 
the  body  to  the  Montparnasse  railway  station, 
whence  it  left  for  Treguier.  The  Breton 
soldier  was  to  sleep  there,  in  his  native  soil, 
that  in  which  his  father,  his  mother,  all  the 
ancestors  who  were  repeated  in  him  and  whose 
faith  he  shared,  were  laid. 

On  comparing  these  two  interments,  I  per- 
ceive a  symbol  in  them.  The  officer  lived  in 
the  communion.  He  died  in  the  communion. 
He  rests  in  the  communion.  My  poor 
master,  in  death,  remains  solitary  as  he  was 
in  the  last  tragic  hour  of  his  life.  I  can 
still  hear  his  voice  saying  to  me,  when  he  was 
so  near  his  end,  and  in  a  poignant  tone:  "How 
alone  one  is!"  With  what  emotion,  when  I 


Which  Is  the  True  ?  299 

pass  before  that  Passy  cemetery,  I  contem- 
plate the  huge  retaining-wall  which  overhangs 
the  Avenue  Henri  Martin!  I  pierce — in 
thought — the  high  embankment  and  proceed 
on  and  on,  until  I  find  the  vault  where,  in  the 
cold,  in  the  silence,  in  death,  the  remains  of 
that  man  of  genius  and  passion,  Ortegue,  are 
completing  their  dissolution.  I  pity  him. 
I  would  aid  him,  and  then  I  say  to  myself 
that,  if  he  still  suffers,  it  is  not  there. 

Another  person  says  the  same  as  I  do — his 
wife.  At  this  very  moment  I  am  looking 
through  the  window  on  to  the  lawn  whose 
verdant  expanse  stretches  beneath  the  ancient 
trees  of  the  hospital  garden.  A  soldier  is  re- 
clining on  an  invalid's  chair.  By  his  side  are 
two  crutches.  His  eyes  are  bandaged.  He 
came  to  us  blind  and  with  a  shattered  thigh. 
We  have  saved  his  leg.  But  we  could  not 
restore  his  sight.  Mme.  Ortegue  is  seated  by 
his  side,  reading  to  him.  How  much  thinner 
and  more  emaciated  she  has  become! 

Her  existence  during  these  six  months 
explains  this  falling  away  only  too  well.  She 


300  The  Night  Cometh 

has  lived,  yes,  and  she  is  living,  but  in  the 
midst  of  the  daily  wear  and  tear  of  an  activity 
expended  beyond  measure  on  behalf  of  our 
wounded  soldiers.  With  the  prolongation  of 
the  war,  our  wards,  alas!  do  not  become  less 
crowded.  Many  of  us  are  growing  tired. 
But  not  Mme.  Ortegue.  Her  devotion  during 
the  first  weeks  even  then  called  forth  our 
astonishment  and  admiration.  It  arouses, 
since  her  husband's  death,  our  admiration 
and  dismay.  We  see  her  stay  up  night  after 
night,  and  offer  to  carry  out  the  hardest,  most 
repugnant,  most  dangerous  tasks.  On  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  a  contagious  disease,  she 
is  there.  She  gives  her  days.  She  gives  her 
nights.  She  gives  her  life.  I — who  know  her 
secret — often  have  the  impression  that  there 
is  a  suicidal  intention  in  her  charity.  One 
would  think  that  she  was  trying  to  satisfy  at 
one  and  the  same  time  the  contradictory 
wishes  of  the  two  men  who  loved  her  so  dearly : 
to  live  as  Le  Gallic  asked  her  to  do,  and  to  die 
as  she  promised  Ortegue. 

To  enable  her  to  obtain  a  little  rest,  I  have 


Which  Is  the  True?  301 

begged  her  to  devote  herself  particularly  to 
our  blind  men.  A  humble  task  indeed! 
"  But/'  as  she  was  told  by  the  Abbe  Courmont, 
who  is  also  anxious  lest  her  health  should  be 
jeopardized  by  such  an  abuse  of  her  strength, 
" there  is  no  humble  task  of  consolation." 
It  was  the  priest  who  obtained  her  consent. 
The  fact  that  he  had  this  influence  over  her 
proves  that  a  revolution  is  taking  place  within 
her.  She  is  tormented  by  religious  nostalgia. 
It  is  Le  Gallic's  personality  which  continues 
to  act  on  hers,  and  this  beautiful  soul — as  he 
described  it — remains  so  faithful,  so  loyal, 
that  even  Ortegue,  were  he  to  be  called  back 
to  life,  could  not  be  jealous  of  this  action. 
The  noble  woman  desires  so  passionately  to 
believe  only  for  his  sake.  Yesterday  again— 
for  she  converses  with  me  with  a  more  open 
heart — she  confessed  to  me: 

"You  reproach  me,  friend,  with  working 
too  hard  in  the  hospital.  I  have  no  other 
means  of  appeasement.  When  I  am  worn 
out  with  fatigue,  after  being  on  day  and  night 
duty,  I  say  to  myself:  'If  Le  Gallic's  belief  is 


302  The  Night  Cometh 

true,  if  there  is  another  world,  if  my  husband's 
soul  is  not  extinct,  if  it  is  in  suffering  some- 
where, perhaps  the  little  help  I  give  others 
will  fall  on  him. '  It  is  but  a  wish,  and  full  of 
doubt.  When  I  give  way  to  it,  an  inexpress- 
ible feeling  of  calm  fills  me,  as  though  a  word 
of  thanks  were  coming  to  me  from  somewhere. 
.  .  .  But  whence?" 

This  simple  woman's  question  aims  at 
nothing  less  than  the  stating  of  the  heart- 
rending and  inevitable  problem  of  death. 
What,  in  reality,  does  the  widow  of  the  un- 
happy Ortegue  ask?  Whether  there  is  an 
eternal  rupture  or  a  mysterious  connection 
between  the  dead  and  the  living;  whether  our 
present  activity  becomes  exhausted,  or  else 
whether  it  is  continued  elsewhere,  in  a  spirit- 
ual universe,  the  first  principle  and  supreme 
explanation  of  the  visible  universe?  Pro- 
vided this  prolongation  exists,  death  assumes 
another  significance;  or,  rather,  it  has  only 
significance  if  this  prolongation  exists.  Other- 
wise, it  is  but  a  termination,  and  what  differ- 


Which  Is  the  True  ?  303 

ence  is  there,  apart  from  the  pain,  between  one 
death  and  another?  All  are  equal  to  the  one 
who  is  dying,  since  they  annihilate  equally. 

This  problem,  essential  though  it  is,  and 
one  which  all  of  us  ought  to  have  solved,  or, 
at  least,  ought  to  meditate  upon,  we  forget  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  life.  How  is  it  possible 
not  to  be  obsessed  by  it  to-day,  when  a  uni- 
versal cataclysm,  this  huge  long-drawn-out 
and  terrible  war,  affirms  it  every  day,  every 
hour,  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  to 
millions  of  beings,  to  those  who  are  fighting 
and  to  those  who  remain  at  home,  to  those 
who  die  and  to  those  who  survive,  to  individ- 
uals, to  families,  to  countries,  to  the  whole 
of  our  humanity?  Has  the  shedding  of  so 
much  blood  and  so  many  tears  a  significance 
elsewhere?  Or  is  this  world-conflict  nothing 
but  a  frenzied  fit  of  collective  delirium,  the 
only  result  of  which  will  be  the  premature 
entrance  of  innumerable  organisms  into  the 
cycle  of  physico-chemical  decompositions  and 
recompositions?  It  is  also  the  problem  which 
faces  us  at  the  close  of  this  long  narrative. 


304  The  Night  Cometh 

To  the  study  of  it  I  wished  to  offer  a  contri- 
bution. It  has  been  offered.  What  is  it 
worth? 

I  said,  on  beginning  these  pages,  that  I 
would  write  them  as  a  " memoir," — as  an 
"  observation."  The  master  quality  of  a 
memoir  is  exactitude.  These  pages  possess 
it.  I  can  pay  them  that  tribute.  But  I  could 
not  prevent  myself  writing  them  under  the 
stress  of  an  increasing  agitation,  in  proportion 
as  the  episodes  were  revived  in  my  memory; 
and  agitation  is  not  a  scientific  attitude.  To 
weep  into  a  microscope  has  never  been  con- 
ducive to  seeing  in  it  clearly.  On  the  point  of 
concluding,  I  will  endeavour  to  resume  that 
intellectual  unconcern  which  is  the  condition 
of  all  objectivity. 

Let  us  sum  up,  then,  the  facts  the  establish- 
ment of  which  results  from  this  observation. 
They  are  to  be  grouped  under  two  headings. 
I  see,  on  the  one  hand,  a  superior  man,  Ortegue, 
furnished  with  every  intellectual  power,  over- 
whelmed with  all  the  favours  of  fate.  Death 
suddenly  rises  before  him.  He  faces  it  with 


Which  Is  the  True  ?  305 

a  certain  doctrine.  He  cannot  adapt  himself 
to  it.  Death  to  him  represents  the  annihila- 
tion of  his  whole  sentimental  psychism,  and 
the  deep  energies  of  his  affective  life  revolt 
against  it.  To  him,  I  repeat,  death  represents 
the  annihilation  of  his  intellectual  psychism. 
His  pupils  will  doubtless  continue  his  activity. 
The  patients  upon  whom  he  has  operated  will 
survive  him.  His  memory  will  not  perish, 
but  the  most  precious  acquisition  of  his  work, 
his  thought,  with  the  accumulated  treasure 
of  his  reflections,  that  power  of  associating 
his  person,  through  knowledge,  with  eternal 
laws — all  this  is  going  to  be  lost  in  nothing- 
ness. He  ends  by  accepting  this  total  col- 
lapse of  his  being  with  pathetic  grandeur,  but 
it  is  the  grandeur  of  crushed  resignation.  It 
is  the  mind  bending,  with  a  gesture  of  de- 
sperate powerlessness,  under  the  pressure  of  ir- 
resistible and  sovereign  forces,  which  to  him 
are  monstrous,  since  they  have  only  produced 
him  with  the  object  of  crushing  him.  Such 
is  the  first  of  the  cases  considered  here. 

I  see.  on  the  other  hand, — and  this  is  the 


306  The  Night  Cometh 

second  case — a  very  simple  man,  Le  Gallic, 
a  man  of  action,  but  so  modest  in  action. 
His  intellectual  representation  of  the  world 
seems  likewise  very  modest.  He  has  not 
formed  his  doctrine;  he  has  received  it.  An 
Ortegue  despises  him  for  it.  Is  he  right  in  so 
doing?  Does  not  a  Le  Gallic,  without  know- 
ing it,  bring  to  the  interpretation  of  life  the 
residuum  of  a  long  secular  empiricism?  Be- 
fore him  also  death  rises.  This  traditional 
doctrine  enables  him  to  accept  it  immediately, 
to  make  it  the  substance  for  his  effort,  an 
opportunity  of  enrichment  for  himself  and 
others.  His  sentimental  psychism  adapts  it- 
self to  it,  since  he  is  able  in  accordance  with 
this  doctrine,  to  offer  his  agony,  with  the 
conviction  of  a  reversion  of  his  sacrifice  to 
those  he  loves.  His  intellectual  psychism 
likewise  adapts  itself  to  it.  He  himself  affirms 
it  when  he  speaks  of  "his  salvation/'  Salva- 
tion is  the  keeping  alive  of  the  best  part  of  his 
being.  His  resignation  is  an  enthusiasm,  a  joy, 
a  love. 

Where  the  other  fails,  he  triumphs.     Where 


Which  Is  the  True  ?  307 

the  other  renounces,  he  asserts  himself.  To 
an  Ortegue,  death  is  a  catastrophic  pheno- 
menon, a  combination  of  an  ambuscade  and 
absurdity.  To  a  Le  Gallic,  it  is  a  consumma- 
tion, an  accomplishment. 

What  conclusion  is  to  be  drawn?  That, 
of  the  two  hypotheses  on  death  whose  applica- 
tion I  have  been  able  to  contemplate  in  the 
case  of  these  two  men,  one  is  utilizable,  the 
other  not.  I  am  well  aware  that  this  formula 
is  simple  to  the  point  of  seeming  puerile.  I 
agree  that  to  me,  with  my  particular  turn  of 
mind,  it  is  burdened  with  such  consequences. 
Nevertheless,  my  clinical  education  dictates 
that  application  should  be  the  definite  test  of 
theories.  In  medicine,  I  accept  nought  save 
verified — that  is  to  say  active,  and  therefore 
experimental — truth.  From  this  point  of 
view,  strange  though  this  change  of  position 
may  be,  a  Le  Gallic  appears  to  me  to  be  more 
scientific  than  an  Ortegue;  just  as  Magendie 
showing  an  experiment  to  Tiedemann,  who 
made  the  objection:  "But  what  about  Bichat's 
law?"  replied:  "I  need  not  trouble  myself 


308  The  Night  Cometh 

about  that.     The  law  is  wrong  if  my  experi- 
ment contradicts  it." 


I  resume,  again  in  order  to  state  the  matter 
precisely,  the  analysis  of  the  results  of  my  own 
experiment,  and  I  find  this  other  formula: 
death  has  no  significance  if  it  is  merely  an  end ; 
it  has  significance  if  it  is  a  sacrifice. — And 
by  the  way,  what  hidden  riches  language  pos- 
sesses, and  how  profound  is  this  word  signi- 
ficance, with  its  double  meaning  of  signification 
and  direction  ! — But  sacrifice  itself  must  have 
a  significance.  We  believe  we  can  detect  this 
significance  very  clearly  in  certain  cases:  such 
as  those  of  a  Delanoe  and  a  Dufour  offering 
their  lives  in  the  trenches  for  their  country. 
The  sum  total  of  these  cases  of  devotion  con- 
stitutes the  army.  It  saves  this  country — 
France.  There  is  nothing  to  be  said  unless 
it  is  this — that  it  is  the  present  immolating 
itself  to  the  future,  and  one  cannot  see  why 
the  future,  which  does  not  yet  exist,  should 
demand  this  privilege  if  an  imperative  order 
had  not  been  given  by  conscience,  which 


Which  Is  the  True  ?  309 

receives  the  revelation  of  it  from  elsewhere. 
And  behold  we  again  come  to  Mme.  Ortegue's 
question:  "But  whence ?" 

And  suppose  the  sacrifice  has  no  immediate 
result?  Suppose  the  being  for  whom  the 
devoted  person  makes  the  sacrifice  does  not 
receive  the  benefit,  has  not  even  an  idea  of  it? 
Mme.  Ortegue  was  at  Le  Gallic* s  bedside  in 
time  to  hear  him  offer  his  life  for  her  sake. 
She  might  not  have  been  there.  Every  day 
soldiers  are  set  down  as  "missing"  who  have 
killed  themselves  for  their  comrades,  and  the 
latter  have  not  known  it,  have  been  lost  per- 
haps in  spite  of  this  sacrifice.  Nevertheless, 
the  sacrifice  was  made.  For  it  to  have  a 
significance,  there  must,  then,  have  been,  in 
the  absence  of  human  witnesses,  someone  to 
receive  it,  a  mind  capable  of  registering  the 
act  which  man  makes  for  man  when  this  act 
has  no  result  and  no  man  knows  it.  If  this 
witness  of  unknown  and  inefficacious  devotions 
does  not  exist,  they  are  as  though  they  had 
not  been.  Everything  in  us  revolts  against 
that.  On  the  other  hand,  is  not  this  witness, 


v/ 


310  The  Night  Cometh 

this  conscience,  the  judge  and  conservation 
of  our  own  to  be  met  with  in  the  world  which 
physical  experience  reveals  to  us?  Is  this 
not  a  proof  that  physical  experience  does 
not  exhaust  reality? 

I  recollect  some  words  which  were  uttered 
one  day  in  my  presence,  at  the  close  of  a  long 
discussion  on  religious  experience,  by  the 
American  psychologist  William  James,  one 
of  the  sincerest  scientists  I  have  met,  one  who 
has  brought  himself  most  completely  under 
the  discipline  of  facts:  "I  believe  that  through 
communion  with  the  Ideal  a  new  energy  enters 
into  the  world  and  gives  birth  to  new  pheno- 
mena.'* What  did  he  mean  by  the  Ideal? 
A  force,  since  it  is  a  source  of  force.  Being 
also  the  source  of  intelligence,  it  must  be  an 
intelligence.  Being  a  source  of  love,  it  must 
be  love.  There  cannot  reside  in  the  conse- 
quent what  virtually  did  not  exist  in  the 
antecedent.  William  James  also  said  of 
our  higher  psychism  "that  it  forms  part  of 
something  greater  than  itself,  but  of  the 
same  nature,  something  which  acts  in  the 


Which  Is  the  True?  311 

universe  outside  it  and  is  able  to  come  to  its 
assistance  ..." 

"That  is  the  opening  of  the  Creed,  set  down 
in  other  words/'  replied  the  Abbe  Courmont 
to  me  the  other  day,  when  I  quoted  these  two 
passages  to  him.  "Is  not  our:  /  believe  in 
God  the  Father  Almighty  this:  something  greater 
and  of  the  same  nature  .  .  .  which  is  able  to  come 
to  the  assistance  of  our  higher  psychism  ?  .  .  . 
William  James  speaks  of  a  new  energy  which 
enters  into  the  world.  What  difference  is  there 
between  this  and  our :  who  for  us  men  and  for 
our  salvation  came  down  from  heaven  ?  .  .  " 

So  I  seem  to  hear  him.  And  since  I  have 
seen  Le  Gallic  and  Ortegue  die,  seen  the  moral 
fulness  of  the  one  death,  and  the  stoical  but 
barren  distress  of  the  other,  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  prove,  experimentally,  that  this 
priest  is  wrong.  No  more  can  I  do  so  when 
he  adds,  alluding  to  Mme.  Ortegue's  religious 
perplexities — and  to  my  own,  I  imagine,  for 
he  is  so  acute: 

"With  what  pain  the  poor  tormented  souls 
of  to-day  seem  to  seek  for  the  truth,  which  is 


3i2  The  Night  Cometh 

there,  quite  simple,  within  their  reach!  Yet 
is  not  this  very  pain  in  the  search  after  truth 
a  prayer?  When  we  feel  the  need  of  God,  it 
is  because  He  is  quite  close  to  us." 

PARIS,  May- August,  1915. 


THE   END 


Jl  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete  Catalogues  sent 
on  application 


Star  of  the  North 

By  Francis  W.  Sullivan 

Author  of  "  Children  of  Banishment " 

1 2  .     Color  Frontispiece.  $1.35 

The  romance  of  a  leading  actor  of  a  mov- 
ing-picture company  that,  to  secure  a  real 
Northern  setting,  camps  near  an  isolated 
Hudson  Bay  post  in  the  Canadian  wilds, 
and  the  lithe,  beautiful  daughter  of  the  post, 
who  knows  the  whole  art  of  woodcraft  but 
has  never  suspected  the  existence  of  such  a 
thing  as  a  photo  play.  A  story  of  action, — 
the  fight  of  a  strong  man  against  craft  and 
guile,  handicapped  by  a  circumstance  of  the 
past  that  controls,  relentlessly  and  with 
jeopardy  to  his  honor  if  evaded,  his  present 
conduct.  Splendid  scenes  of  the  open,  rugged 
opposition  of  nature  against  the  dogged  will 
of  man,  an  inspiring  background,  and  a  fore- 
ground vibrant  with  life. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


BARS  OF  IRON 


BY  E.  M.  DELL 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  WAY  OP  AN  EAGLE,"  "THE  ROCKS  OF 
"THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  DOOR,"  etc. 


/2°,    COLOR  FRONTISPIECE,    560  PAGES.    $130 

The  story  of  a  man  who,  goaded  into  a 
fight,  yields  to  the  devil  that  masters  him  and 
hurls  his  opponent  to  death.  Years  later, 
unknowing  of  her  identity  and  equally  un- 
known, he  falls  in  love  with  the  widow  of 
the  man  he  has  killed  and  kindles  in  her  a 
friendship  that  has  in  it  the  promise  of  a 
stronger  feeling.  At  that  stage,  he  learns 
by  chance  the  awful  part  that  he  had  played 
in  her  life,  and  the  story  is  the  story  of  his 
conduct  under  the  trying  conditions  of  this 
discovery,  of  the  resolution  he  formed,  the 
promise  he  made,  and  the  way  his  actions, 
dictated  by  fear  and  affection,  influenced  the 
woman  he  loved. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


DRIFTING 
WATERS 

BY  RACHEL  SWETE  MACNAMARA 

Author  of 
"The  Fringe  of  the  Desert,"  "The  Torch  of  Life,"  etc. 

12°.    Illustrated.    $1.35 

The  rebellion  of  a  young  girl,  budding  into 
womanhood,  against  the  jealous  proprietorship 
of  a  mother's  love.  There  has  been  much 
in  the  married  life  of  this  mother  to  account 
for  her  bitterness  of  soul  and  to  explain  her 
tyrannous  affection  that  demands,  from  the 
daughter  whom  she  loves,  a  singleness  of  de- 
votion to  the  exclusion  of  everyone  else.  The 
daughter's  fancy  is  in  time  caught  in  the 
meshes  of  love,  and  the  clandestine  expression 
of  her  attachment,  which  the  circumstances 
demand,  involves  developments  of  far-reach- 
ing interest  to  the  unfolding  of  the  story.  The 
scene  is  in  part  England,  in  part  Egypt — the 
haunting,  glowing,  throbbing  Egypt  that  the 
author  has  again  made  so  real. 

New  York         G.    P.    Putnam's    SODS         London 


The  Wiser  Folly 

By 

Leslie  Moore 

72°.     Color  Frontispiece.     $1.25 

Readers  of  Leslie  Moore's  "  Peacock 
Feather  "  will  find  in  this  new  book  a  story 
of  kindred  interest.  The  action  takes  place 
on  an  old  estate.  The  occupying  family 
holds  the  estate  as  the  outcome  of  a  series  of 
violent  happenings  in  the  past,  culminating  in 
a  written  renunciation  of  a  former  baronet. 
The  document  recording  this  renunciation 
has,  however,  been  lost.  With  the  opening 
of  the  story,  there  steps  upon  the  scene  a 
descendant  of  the  man  who  made  the  re- 
nunciation, and  this  claimant  has  all  the 
necessary  proofs  of  his  kinship.  Disposses- 
sion of  the  family  seems  inevitable.  Out  of 
this  situation  the  author  has  developed  a 
romantic  tale,  with  many  pleasing  touches 
and  a  strong  love  interest. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


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